


The Adventures of Cyril Cadash

by mouwrost



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Time Travel, dimension hopping, fic for feynite, fic of a fic, tdwh au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6221830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouwrost/pseuds/mouwrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an au of feynite's "The Dread Wolf's Heart" turned into another au because its just fun and i love feynite's writing </p>
<p>Cyril Cadash can handle a lotta weird shit, she has a good handle on such things. This shit is really weird though, and she might be reaching the threshold of  just how much weird shit she can keep under her belt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Pat on the Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/gifts).
  * Inspired by [TDWH AU - Franken!Solas](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/181114) by feynite. 



Cyril Cadash figured she had a good hold on everything that had happened to her. The sky blew up, big deal. Put some dirt on it. A magister death god? Not a problem, throw some bombs, cuss a bit. Pretty much takes care of itself. Friends havin issues? Strong ale and a couple pats on the back, theyd figure it out. A push here or there, reinstate some ancient orders, yell at some magister dads, break your best buddy outta jail. All easy stuff. It can be taken care of in short order, the day is a day, ya go home and take a bath and get ready for whatever comes next.   
She had failed to guess that what came next was some sorta… spirity… god… Solas amalgamation. He coulda at least waited until the ache in her missing arm went away before he popped in. And he literally popped, she wants the records to show. The air made a pop sound and everything when he appeared. Weird shit.   
“Do you know where Inquisitor Lavallen is?” His eyes seemed to be searching the area, as if elfy whoever might appear if he stared at one spot hard enough. At least she assumed an elf from that. She was relatively certain a clan by that name had control of Wycome after Duke whats-his-shit turned out to be a Coryphe-dud.   
“Uh, right, youre not from around here are ya?” she asked, leaning against the stone walls of the ruin. At least this one didnt seem to have intentions on unmaking the world… at the moment, anyways.  
“I am not, no. Things became… disjointed. Too many voices but then it was me alone. I wasn’t the me she yearned for however, so I left”.   
Shit hes talking like Cole - I was never good at speaking to that kid.  
“Wow, bummer there bud. I think you need to talk this out.” Cyril shrugged.   
He looked confused, and a bit concerned, and finally seemed to take notice of the missing arm.  
“Are you the inquisitor here then?” he turned his head to the side as he asked. For some reason he seemed… a little… young…. or something like that. Maybe it was just the lighter rhythm to the words. She’d find out later, she assumed.  
“Eh, more or less. Not as active as I used to be. You look tired, feeling alright?“   
“I… yes. I just need some time to think about everything.”  
“Buddy I know just the place for that.” she didnt mean to smirk as she nodded at the words. But this was easier. She could just talk to him, get some information. Bella kept a table for her in the corner for these sorts of things, anyways.  
–  
The trip to Redcliffe was… rocky… to say the least. Why did he want to fly or pop everywhere? What was wrong with walking. When Cyril asked him why he was so impatient, he paused for a good five minutes before apologizing and finally slowing to a walk. He said it was all new to him, and that this world was ‘more faded’ than the one he made for Her. With how reverently weird-solas-not-solas spoke, she decided to give Her a capital ‘H’ just in case it turned out the guy could read thoughts or something. That’d be mad creepy, also kind of cool. The rest of the walk was rather silent because Cyril started just thinking at him very hard, to no effect. Except it seemed to make him a bit uncomfortable, which made him fidget a bit, which was funny. She wished Sera were here to laugh with her.  
Getting him into the tavern without any of the inquisition members in the area noticing him proved to require a bit of stealth. Stealth came from flopping a cloak that was definitely not an old potato sack of his head and marching through the front door loudly calling him ‘Zevran old buddy’ because it was the first name that came to mind. Hopefully Bella would just assume this was a different Zevran and not that the Glorious Inquisitor was just that bad at coming up with names for weird goddy duplicates.   
A couple of minutes later, they were burrowed into Cyril’s corner table, with strong ale and warm meals in front of them.  
“I require neither food nor drink.” Zevlas informed her.   
“That’s whatever, you still have digesty stuff yah? Give it a try, you might like it” she said, before downing her pint and grinning at him.   
After a moment of contemplation, he followed suit. Nearly choking, and sputtering against the flavour before shoveling the food into his mouth to try and replace it.   
“Yeah see, not so hard is it?” she said as she poured him another drink.   
–   
As it turned out, Solran was not a lightweight, but very open to communication. He was willing to discuss his undying love for this Her, a Lavallen, and he even got all dreamy and almost-regular-solas poetic about his heart. She nodded and offered agreements and questions where needed, and prompted further comments when he seemed to distract himself in his own descriptions. He spoke with a hand over his chest and a far off look to his eyes, it made Cyril feel a tiny bit embarrassed.   
“It pains me greatly that she did not wish to know me” he said as Bella delivered another pitcher of ale.   
“What… wait? You two aren’t a couple?”  
“She was very in love with Solas, who partly became me but there were others as well. So, I am more than him and thus am not him, and that hurts her. I mostly inherited these feelings, and do not know what to make of them.”  
Well shit, man, no wonder you freaked Her out.  
“So…. you just kind of….. shoved all these admirations at Her, while she was in mourning, even though you barely understand them yourself?“   
At his solemn nod she knew. It was time to start patting him on the back.  
"Listen kid, Ive been up the beanstalk and back a few times now, and I can tell ya one thing. Love takes work. It isn’t just ‘poof suddenly this person has sunshine out the ass’. Its a monumental effort of communication and choice. So through your weird birth, or uh… rebirth… or whatever… you inherited Her Solas’s feelings of love and devotion, but you chose to keep them because Lavallen’s just one helluva person, right? So you gotta work on it in your own way. You need to figure out who you really are, what you really want of yourself and of your life, and then try and talk to Lavallen so She can work out how She feels about you. Love is beautiful, its strong. Maybe in your case its inevitable, but its still a series of decisions.” Cyril tried to put it plainly, in case he was more like Cole than hold-the-extra-trauma-and-soul-fusing-Solas.   
He looked a bit sadly contemplative, and asked for another drink.   
Huh, maybe if they kept this friendly streak up, he could help her save the world.


	2. A Walk Through The Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That hard moment when youre looking for Solas and find one but not the one youre lookin for

Much of Cyril’s recent missions were mostly snooping around old magical elfy places in hopes of garnering some info on Solas’s plans or whereabouts. Thus far no dice, and with most of her inner circle scattered to the winds, she was often alone. It made for really boring, slow, disappointing travel. She just… couldn’t bring herself to trust most of the inquisition these days, after learning how easily spies infiltrated it. She could trust Harding and Charter, but they were doing hand things for Leliana.  
And no, she had no intention of wording that in a less suggestive manner. It was funny to see Leliana’s face when she said it.  
Most of the ruins she found were empty, or were suddenly missing from where they were supposed to be. On one occasion, she did find a very fancy looking elf in a ruin. He went down in one hit and she dragged him back to the inquisition for interrogation. To her bitter disappointment, it turned out he was just a very poncey, weak assassin. He had a nice voice though, so she set him up to singing in the tavern since Maryden was off with Krem more often than not these days.  
What’s going on with todays youth and courtship, in my day ya just sat on the roof and threw cookies at passersby.  
She sighed at herself, she was dallying with silly memories of events that felt forever ago. There were things that needed done. Ruins to squat in and disappointed with. Solases to not find.  
Except this time the ruin had the goddy-spirity-Solas in it, just not the one she was actively looking for. She really need to think up some nickname for this guy, maybe Varric could help. Except that would result in a lot of weird questions and maybe some attempts at murder, and this Solas wasnt causing them any havoc, so why should she bother?  
Except he apparently ate a buncha god souls and then destroyed and remade the world. Maybe he should face some repercussions for that? But it happened already, and a long time ago, to people she didnt really and would probably never know. People got hurt, but its not like she could help at this point. Still. Maybe shed get him with a pie sometime. Seems like his-not-girlfriend would appreciate it, if nothing else… if She were here anyway.  
“Hey Zevran hows it going?“ Cyril had to stifle a snort at the way he scrunched his nose up in regards to his false identity.  
“I would prefer you not call me that.”  
“Sorry, its just a little easier to only have one Solas to refer to. I can call you that if you prefer, or somethin else. Thats up to you.”  
“I suppose a name is something to consider, though I have no quarrels with being called Solas, in truth.” He looked pretty Solas-y right now. He’d gotten some less conspicuous clothing and armor at some point, and his arms were clasped tightly behind his back.  
It made her… uncomfortable. The Solas she knew was her friend, and he was willing to betray that. To betray the world he’d saved just cause it wasnt saved the way he was hoping it would be. To throw away so many lives and so much hope and chances for more, chances for people to do better and he didnt care to see it! Hed tear it all apart and he wasnt even certain that that could “fix” his “mistake”.  
Relax, breathe. This isnt the time for an emotional collapse on your part. Thats the other guys job, probably.  
“Hmm yeah, sorry just having some… problems… given how the things with the shit went to extreme shit. Hey do me a favour? Just kinda unclasp your hands, yeah like that, now kinda… loosen up your shoulders and… lean them a lil forward… Good, now you’re doing this very important thing called ‘slouching’. It looks great on ya, do it more often, okay?"  
"This results in poor posture.” he responded with what could almost be called a pout. Funny to see on that particular face.  
“So do burdens, heart break, tryna lift up Iron Bull, heavy stuff in general. Speaking of which, do you need to talk?” she slid down against a wall and patted the ground next to her in an invitation for monster-mash-solas to sit. His face had that same quizzical expression and focused eyes that Solas would get when he was suspicious of things. Stupid faces. Being identical.  
Extra-Solas obliged though, and was leaning against the wall with her quickly. He was quiet for the first while, opting to observe the faded murals and shattered mosaics that lined the walls of the small temple. Cyril assumed it had once been a temple, anyways. The dragonny and wolf carvings looked similar to other temples shed explored, and it had this weird quality to it. Almost like a… tint to the air. Like by just looking at it ya could tell that there was a more spirity quality. Soft, flowering vines snaked up the walls and hung from holes in the roof. Sunlight shone through and danced against the stones, a kaleidoscope of colour that reminded her of the stained glass in skyhold. “Her” castle, that Solas had been so kind to gift to her. The one that she couldnt feel safe in any more. Cyril tried not to consider it often, but missed the way the rainbows of glass refracted on her bedsheets in the morning.  
“I have been trying to understand…” he said at length, “it is… difficult. I am beginning to think that leaving so swiftly may have been a grave error. Perhaps… if I had simply stayed, she could have explained what you said to me herself… but I did not give her the chance, and frustratingly failed to realize such truths on my own.” the quick shift of dreamy tones turned harsh when he began to refer to himself. Still the self-deprecating type then.  
“Sometimes grasping empathy can be tough. Its not always clear on the surface how people are thinkin or feelin’, ya gotta try to learn how to look for that stuff. If you never try'n look past the surface, all youll learn about a person is the mask they wear and the walls they build.”  
“Why not simply speak plainly? It would make things simpler."  
Like Cole at the winter palace.  
"Uh… fear and paranoia, I guess? If people don’t know what hurts you, then maybe they cant help… but people arent always looking to help. Some people would take that info to hurt you, or put you under their thumb, manipulate. Stuff like that. Empathy and consideration are key points to interacting with people, buuuut not to the point where it comes back to hurt you either, if that makes sense. Dont throw yourself in the mud just so somebody else can have dry feet, get it?”  
“Ah, I had forgotten. You are correct, I will need to work on that as well it appears.” he sounded frustrated, and was shaking his head at himself. Cyril gave him a squeeze on the shoulder, and a small smile.  
She was surprised when he straightened at her touch and looked back to her very fiercely.  
“You have been helpful, and I have been selfish. You have many problems of your own, more than a fair few caused directly by my counter part I would wager. Do you need to talk on anything? If you need to be inebriated to do so, I could fly us the your preferred tavern in short order."  
The intensity and sincerity with which he spoke threw her. She froze, and then startled herself with a small laugh. This laugh became a hearty chuckle, which became a loud cackle, until suddenly she was leaning on him laughing like a maniac with tears in her eyes as he looked on in concern, turned towards her with hands frantically patting her back.  
Maybe there’s a chance at salvation then… for everyone, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder how far i can continue this  
> chapter two taken from my original submission on tumblr~!


	3. letters and friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril loves her friends, and her friends friends. and this weird friend that is still a friend and therefore she loves him, but it would be bad if other people she loved killed him. So maybe she should stay on a layer low than the low she was on, and pen some letters.

It took a while for her laughter to subside, and by then her face was covered in sticky tears and nose gunk. She huffed a sigh, and wiped her face against the back of her coat sleeve. Magic-mayhem-Solas still had a hand on her back and was rubbing it in small circles while murmuring comforting nonsense. Partly in elven, she recognized some of the words but didn't know their meaning. Cyril patted him on the arm lightly before slowly rising to her feet. He stood slowly in turn, towering a bit over her and looking particularly worried. For a moment they just stood there staring at each other silently, the only sounds were that of their breathing and the light chirping of birds. 

"Alright, good talk. I feel better now, thank you." she said, smacking him gently on the back once. 

He looked frustrated that no actual talking was involved, but that just... wasn't how Cyril worked these things out. Never had been, and she'd be damned if magical-god-pals changed that about her. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it back out again in a heavy rush. She strode forward, looking around the ruin a bit more fully and noting that most of it was closed off by fallen debris. Falling into step at her side, Zolas hummed a moment before speaking, arms behind his back once more. 

"There are many things different about this world. Its very nature is completely different from the one I grew from, and in-turn created. But, many things seem to be the same as well. The wars, the people are not so changed, the history remains mostly the same as well. As such, I can tell you that this once something of a sanctuary for my counter part. A place to return to and rest, compose plans, hide if need-be. So long as the politics of the People were not so different, either. This upper level is little more than entry point. The halls to the left lead to various bed chambers for guests and a study, halls to the right lead to areas for dining and bathing. One path in particular leads to a lower meeting chamber where sensitive topics were discussed and argued over. An eluvian should be sitting there, though I cannot say if it would still be functional. While most of the sanctuary has been destroyed, I can get you into that room if you desire." he told her quietly, eyes scanning over the broken walls in an aching nostalgia. 

"Uh well, sure. Thanks. That makes things definitely easier." she answered quickly.

A flash of teeth from his ready grin and the quick cutting motion he made with his hand left her a bit worried after her decision, however. When the floor to her immediate left suddenly crumbled and groaned while reshaping into a magical set of stairs, she jumped, and reflexively reached for the blade at her side. But the stairs formed themselves in short order, and the dusty smell wafting up from the underground room didn't seem to carry any of the darkspawn stink with it, so she relaxed and arched a brow at the super-elf beside her. 

"Effective, but kinda startling. In future events maybe give me a warning if it's not an emergency, alright?" His expression turned apologetic as he inclined his head.

_Okay good. Time to go plundering._

Cyril tried and failed to avoid mentally crossing her fingers that her own world's Solas wouldn't be hanging out below. It would be funny, and as she made her descent she allowed herself to imagine that situation.   
_Oh yes Solas so good to see you, I've been looking for you. How's your health? Oh, what, him? Yes he's just a new friend of mine. Solas this is Solas, I believe you're somewhat familiar with him._

Sighing at herself and the empty space before he as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she nearly failed to catch herself as she stumbled over a bit of broken... something, that she hand't noticed in the low light. But she managed not to completely fall flat on her face, a small victory, but her annoyance must have shown based on Solas's attempts to steady her before she waved him off. Only having one arm was annoying, and traumatizing when phantom pains and itches stirred, but just another thing to adapt to. Life was a series of adaptations from the moment she was welcomed into it, as change was natural to a child of a carta clan, and she could handle this just as certainly as she handled everything before it. 

Peering down into the gloom, she still couldn't quite make out what she had stumbled over. She removed the rune Dagna had gifted her for just these such situations, and with a flick of the wrist, it set to glowing. A warm, blue light that spread threw the chamber like a glowing fog. Waggling her brows slightly at her companion, she let go off the rune. It pulsed once, and set to floating gently around her, pulsing to lift itself when it reached below a certain height. The floating little rune-lights that Dagna had crafted had been some of her favourite of the genius enchanters innovations. She commissioned, despite Dagna's assurances she could have them for free, five in separate colours. Dagna slipped in a sixth for free that changed colours with each pulse. That one tended to give her a bit of a headache though, so Cyril resolved to using it more for distractions than as an actual light source. When the idea for floating glowlights had first formed, they'd tried to make them into floating little bubbles of glass. Those, though delightful, turned out to be rather fragile, and poor partner for adventure. 

With her little light contentedly pulsing and flitting about, Cyril picked up the obstacle on the floor, and turned it over in her hand slowly. It seemed to be a piece of a statue, with light etchings that swirled about it in patterns she often saw on statues representing Fen'Harel. It wasn't too terribly heavy, but she sat it back down away from her feet rather than carry it about. A thought occurred to her then, about legends and aliases and insults and pride. 

She snapped, and pointing to the Solas in her midst said, "Maybe one of yall can be Fen'Harel when the others not around." 

He frowned though at her suggestion, brows furrowing. "Or perhaps not." 

She shrugged and bopped her light forward before walking deeper into the room, mindful of the debris on the floor. The area was not very large, no bigger than Skyhold's on war room, but it was in a far worse state of disrepair. The fragment she had tripped over proved to have been the segment of a paw on a massive carving of Fen'Harel, pieces were scattered over the floor, and the head had crushed into the eluvian, nearly snapping it in half. Broken magical glass was strewn across the shimmering jade tile, much of which was also broken in spiderweb like patterns. She pulled another rune from her pocket, and set it to glow brighter, and a bit higher up than the other. The orange and blue light fused into an odd sort of green hue, dispersing in odd reflections across the broken room. She took a moment to appreciate the artistry of it. The eluvian sat on a gilden jade pedestal, mother-of-pearl embellishments swirled about in repeating patterns and sigils along the base. From what she could see of the eluvian, its frame was wrought in a pale gold, with obsidian vines climbing up the sides and forming a crescent shape at the top. The walls were covered in mosaics that depicted the evanuris, and scenes of dragons and wolves dancing, fighting, and tending to the people. A fresco on the far wall stirred remiss nostalgia and pain, she recognized the strokes in the paint and thick, bold lines. It was a relatively simple scene, it seemed little more than a painting of leaders standing on opposite sides of a river, the river forked and gave way to a small island which hosted a golden tree, with branches reaching up into the heavens. The fresco was beautiful, but knowing Solas there was likely some sort of hidding meaning that she lacked the historical context to spot. 

She looked quizzically at the false-god-devouring-solas not far behind her. He was looking around the room with an almost bored expression to his face. She pursed her lips, the sliver of a plan forming in the back of her mind, before regarding him fully. She nearly attempted to cross her arms, but remembering the absence instead settled for simply wrapping her right one around her waist. 

"Do you think you could patch this up? Not in a world altering way, maybe just guide things back where they belong, clear some of the rubble away?"

"Certainly, although I will not be able to repair the eluvian, the pathways of this world are of a different sort than the ones I am most familiar with."

"No worries, we don't need that fixed yet, and I know somebody who could fix that on her own when the time comes."

_Or at least I sort of know her._

He nodded once with a small smile, and set to repairing the immediate area, as he did so, a swirling pattern in the ceiling began to glow, allowing her to deactivate her runes and return them to her pockets. The pieces he had broken to form a set of stairs returned to their places, and as he set to repairing the stairwell and corridor, another thought occurred to her.

"Ah, dont completely repair everything, the topside can stay a ruin. Hopefully Solas won't be too interested in this place if his people haven't already been through here, and I don't want to attract too much attention. I'm sort of supposed to be retired." she said with a wink before unslinging the bag from her shoulders. For his half of the conversation, other-Solas seemed a bit confused, but acquiesced and returned to her side in short order.

From her bag Cyril pulled out a thick leather journal, ink, and a quill. There was no table in the room, so she promptly sat against the statue and rested the papers she took from her journal and began writing, although balancing the journal on her leg proved a bit precarious all the same. 

_Sera darling, Im fine. Not hurt, not missing any more pieces, up to my elbows in weird shit as always. Which means itd be only up to your knees, but Im content keeping your legs shit-free for the time being. A lot of weird magical stuff happened, but nothing drastic. I made a new friend and he's extra weird, we're working on it though and I promise its not any danger. I dont think its something youd be comfortable with though, so until I get a better handle on it I wont drag ya into it. I have some plans, I think theyll be fun. Dont know how safe our letters are though so I wont go into detail, especially since the thought just popped outta my ass like five minutes ago. How are things in Val Royeaux? Keeping nobles rattled? Is Dagna keeping busy? Try to stay safe, Id hate for anything to happen to you. Tell the other Jennies I say hi.  
_ _With Love, your wife Cyril._

She finished her letter with a doodle of herself, Sera, and Dagna blowing up a dragon before carefully tucking it into a marked envelope. 

_Viscount Varric Tethras of Kirkwall, sorry to disappoint, but I believe Ill be postponing my visit to kirkwall for a time. Stumbled into some weird shit, it might be fun. It might help, more importantly. But things are a little tricky and the details need pounding out. Youll just have to survive without the glorious inquisitor stealing your ale for a while younger, but Hawke's back so I dont think my absence will leave you wanting. I was looking forward to trying out the key to the harbor though, to see Brans face if nothing else. Give Hawke a pat on the back for me, write if theres an emergency.  
_ _Keeping on keeping on, Inquisitor Cadash._

For Varric's letter she doodled him and Hawke playing pranks on Aveline before tucking it away as well. 

_Her Reverence, Divine Victoria the first,_  
hows it going? Your hands keeping busy, grabbing things and stuff? Like the reforms youve made, and of course the inquisition is ever in your service. I think Ive found an edge. A small one maybe, but every little bit helps, right? Ill keep you up to date as I can. I dont know if I completely trust our couriers though. If you have a drastic need that requires my attention, you know how to find me. Stay safe. Try not to piss anybody off too badly.   
In sincerity, Inquisitor Cadash. 

Leliana's letter would receive no doodles as Cyril could never quite catch her likeness, but she shoved a couple of flowers into the envelope before sealing it. 

The nearest Inquisition camp was about fifteen miles away, if she walked fast she might get there and back before the evening set in. She'd need to take a different approach to how she returned to her new hub, however, just in case prying eyes were inclined to take notice that she returned to a particular spot. It'd exhaust the shit outta her and she might need a strong drink upon her return, but she think she could make it work. Still, that thought lead to how she would set this all up. She'd need consistent supplies here, camping equipment at the least, a desk or two, maps... and then there was still the matter of recruiting the people she needed to make this much work. She knew where two of them could likely be found, but the others were a bit of a mystery at best. Setting up a secure network without raising a good deal of ire would take some work as well, especially since Solas probably new about this place. And thats a helluva lotta traveling to do when this plan is still in its infancy. Maybe new-team-player-Solas could set up some runes to deter people from coming in? His other self and his other-self's people could probably recognize the magic though. Or maybe not since he was sort of a god? Would it be different?

_Magic is magic, like water is water._ A memory reminded her.

Repacking her bag, she turned her chin up towards the Solas standing at her side, a quiet but curious look of concern painted his features as he looked down upon her. 

"Would you mind helping me out a bit?" she rose as she spoke.

"I would be honored to assist, and would have offered in any case. If it is of no great burden or discomfort to you, I would rather stay and help than drift. I have a good read on the spirit of you now, so it would not be difficult to find you once more, however I am... disinclined to -- "

"B'awww Solaaaas if you wanted to hang out you could just said soooo." Cyril crooned, pinching his cheek and tutting at him. 

He served her a look that was somehow both flabbergasted and unimpressed, which was pretty funny and only made her laugh a bit before she released his face. 

"Friends should help, and so I shall." he said quietly, but with a force of determination behind his words. Likely mentally chastising his previous incarnation's actions, as well as the path that the current Solas was set upon.

"Good, we've a lot to do and more friends to make. I'm glad you're staying." she said with a choppy nod, excited and anxious. She moved with a pep in her step and a gleam in her eyes. It was a small chance, she knew it. But it was a purpose to cling tightly to, and she was ready to see how far down the nug burrow she could spin this plan before it succeeded, or else fell to ruin. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everybody appreciates my completely coherent summary and i am blowin kisses to anybody who reads my writing <3


	4. Gravel filled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((emetophobia warning for this one!!))
> 
> Approaching the inquisition camp without letting her excitement be too obvious proved to be a challenge. Despite coaching from both Josephine and Enchanter Vivienne, she still tended to openly wear her emotions.

Approaching the inquisition camp without letting her excitement be too obvious proved to be a challenge. Despite coaching from both Josephine and Enchanter Vivienne, she still tended to openly wear her emotions. When excited, she tended to bounce on her feet, smirking blatantly with a twitch in her fingers. Josephine had told her that recognizing her own body language was the best way to tamp it down, and would make it easier to interact with the court. Granted, Cyril was just heading to an inquisition camp to mail some letters, but she had reason to be skeptical of her own people these days. So, she paced herself as she got closer. Flexed and unflexed her fingers so that they'd be less obvious searching activity, and thought about dull or sad things to keep her face molded down. 

_Corypheus's breath, dry wheat crackers for breakfast, sand in general._

As the camp came into view she took several deep breaths before approaching and relaying instructions for the courier. It was simple enough, but it was difficult to get on her way as the agents and soldiers attempted to hand her supplies, information, and began boasting about some bandits they'd taken care of. She put on her best authoritative voice, thanking them for the continued devotion, offering lots of praise, and finally scooting off with a few extra water skins and a tin of sugared almonds. She'd asked not-solas to meet her about five miles out of the carta posting that they were headed to. It'd be slow traveling on her end, but it was probably a safer bet to remaining inconspicuous if the inquisitor was not seen with strangely familiar bald elves despite the efforts against another bald elf. Despite her "retirement", the inquisitor still had a lotta lee-way, and a lotta people were still looking for somebody sympathetic in a high place of power to help with their problems. Not that she minded helping of course, but time was a luxury she wasn't quite willing to spare at the moment. 

After about a day into her trek, good time as far as she was considered, not-solas popped into picture again. With literal popping, she continued to be a bit annoyed by the popping.

"Ya know I'd think with being a near omnipotent being born from an eternal god monster you'd be a bit more patient." she quiped, half yawned if she was being honest, but the inquisitor would never be so unprofessional by oversleeping, of course. 

"There are many things that need doing from what you've shared with me of this plan of yours. And Solas will not move so slowly, I assure you. It would be best to make haste." 

With an internal sigh, she finished packing up her makeshift camp. Fully intent on continuing the path she had picked from her map and brief memories of the area from her youth, she was a touch annoyed when Sol-not-as stopped her again. 

"I can fly us to our destination in barely any time at all, it would be far more convenient, if you are alright with it." he said, raising a hand to stop her. The other was tucked behind his back, and she lamented that the lessons in slouching didn't seem to take. 

"Mmm. Huh right see, dwarf. Heights and I don't always tend to mix very well." she told him with a frown, gesturing to her height and shaking her head.

"I will be careful."

_This is so ridiculous. Glorious Inquisitor Cadash and her dragon friend went on an adventure and the clouds over the mountains were just so poofy! Magic and friendship save the day!_

Closing her eyes she brought a hand up to rub her hair out of her eyes. Despite his impatience, he did not prompt her as she mulled over her answer and counted to ten. He did not huff or shift on his feet, simply stood with his hands behind his back looking far too Solas-y for comfort. Momentarily, Cyril felt miserable that this situation could exist at all. It made the idea of dropping into the sky to leave the Stone so far below her even more terrifying. Rubbing the back of her neck and shaking her head, she looked into his eyes. He did not wear a mask over his features, and seemed sincere with his offer of a quick and safe trip. 

"Shit. You drop me and you're buying drinks after I kick your ass, got it?" she sighed, squeezing at the stump of her arm. 

With a flash of a smile and a much brighter and more startling flash of light, the wind kicked up around Zevlas as he shifted into an utterly massive high dragon. His horns curled viciously from the crown of his skull, and he was covered in large black scales that seemed to ripple like water in the light. Upon his go-ahead, she clambered up to his head. Which took some doing considering his scales were rather slick, he was huge, and she only had one frigging arm. After her third attempt resulted in her sliding back down his side, he carefully lifted an arm to his head, allowing her a better foothold to climb up. Once actually on top of the dragony-not-solas, her trepidation crawled back in full force, nestling heavily within the pit of her stomach. Wrapping her arm tightly around his right horn, she squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on her tongue to keep from screaming. The lurch as the lifted off left her feeling dizzy, and tears formed in the corner of her eyes. 

\--

As a clans hunter, there are certain duties one is expected to keep. Providing for the clan, trading with other clans or travelling merchants when necessary, protecting the clan. At times, it includes infiltrating the city of Wycome with inquisition soldiers to put an end to the purge of the alienage, and then staying afterwards to establish a city council. And as years pass, it may also come to include joining a group from the clan and alienage as they decide to disappear, for whatever reason. Deshanna had told her that elves across Thedas were vanishing into the wilds, the inquisition had sent a report apparently. The task was simple enough, protect her people, and find a way to send word of what was going on once she knew. If the task involved ancient magics and strange looking elves who seemed to ignore the common tongue, then so be it. She didn't care for their superiority, however. They looked at the elves of her clan with disdain trailing in their features, sharp eyes squinting down at them, and a sneer colouring their words. Ghilavir, one of her clan's younger mages, seemed oblivious or else unperturbed by their attitudes.

"There are so many things to discover here!" she excitedly exclaimed after they'd arrived at their strange destination, some sort of sanctuary from what Lavellan understood of the old texts. "The spirits here have been ever so helpful, they don't make my head hurt and I haven't had a nightmare in WEEKS! Keeper Deshanna was a fantastic teacher but studying freely whatever I want is so much better! Just the other day I found this text about shape changing and one of the men from Clan Ralaferin has been helping me translate it and it's just so fascinating." Ghilavir tended to ramble quicker than Lavellan could keep up with, but she nodded at her enthusiam, smiling and asking questions when Ghilavir began to quiet. She was the youngest to make this odd journey, and the older members of the clan and alienage tended to only humor her. Lavellan was a hunter, not a mage, so while many of the concepts escaped her, she was happy to enthuse over the knowledge with Ghilavir. Any chance to learn what she could, regardless of if it would tell her why so many elves were being gathered in so many place, was a chance worth taking. And besides that, Ghilavir was young yet, and Lavellan didn't know if she could trust what snooty impressions the Others might leave on her.

It was difficult to not develop an "us and them" mentality when the ancient elves were often the ones most interested in cultivating it. They spoke in hushed tones away from the elves of Thedas, but a keen hunter could take advantage of the shadows present in corners and beneath marble pillars. The talked about ominous plans, but her own lack of understanding of the ancient dialect left her with no concrete understanding. They often alluded to some leader who did not seem to be Mythal, as Ghilavir and several others claimed appeared in dreams. And many of them turned their noses up at the 'shemlen' that 'cluttered' the sanctuaries. 

But she would learn, and she would protect her people, as was her duty as a hunter. 

_Could help if so many of them weren't completely awful._ She thought with a reluctant sigh as Ghilavir excitedly continued on. 

\--

Upon landing in a heavy fog, all of Cyril's apprehension to flight came flying out of her. Her mouth, that is. She was vomiting violently into some bushes as a healing hand rubbed her back with quiet apology. As far as flight was considered, she supposed it could have been worse. She didn't die, nobody tried to shoot at them, and the spinning in her head wasn't nearly as bad as it had been that time she was thrown into a trebuchet. And, they did arrive only a few miles of their destination far sooner than they may have otherwise. However, she hated it. And in no way did the Mighty Inquisitor walk over to the nearest boulder and hug it, because that would just be silly. Nor did she quietly whisper some old oaths and apologies to the Stone, or stick her tongue out at her dragon-friend once she had finished doing so. 

After a few minutes of simply deeply breathing in the scent of earth and Stone around her, she shook her head. 

"Sorry that was undignified. And gross." 

"It was a perfectly reasonable reaction, next time I shall attempt to see if the experience can be gentler on you." he answered, sympathy in his gaze. 

"Atashi," she said with a snap of her fingers, ignoring the promise of a repeat experience, "its the Qunari word for dragons. How'd that sit with ya as a name?" 

His nose wrinkled in that angry-Solas face she'd seen on few occasions before. Not quite as angry as when they'd found Wisdom in the Exalted Plains, but nothing seemed to have made him as angry as that time. She chased that thought from her mind before speaking again, more quietly than before.

"Well, we can play the name game for a while." 

They began their walk to the Carta hideout just barely to the west then. It was dug into an old granite quarry, a steep crossing path lead down into it, the walkways having crumbled some since its original abandonment some time before the Carta had re-purposed it, recycling many of its old tools. The humans that had owned the quarry didn't even realize that they were sitting on some of the easiest to access lyrium veins in the Free Marches, and the Carta was happy for their ignorance. It made claiming it a less messy affair than it may have otherwise been. The time she'd come here as a child, she had taken some of the gravel from one of the more unstable mineshafts and kept it in her pockets and shoes. The dust it left on her skin smelled good to her, and made it easier for grip onto her practice sword. The gravel in her shoes, however, slowed her down. She was quickly told to stop keeping it on her like that, her response, of course, was to sew extra pockets into her clothes to hide more gravel else where. Which got her stuck on a lotta heavy lifting chores when she was finally caught, the clicking sound when she walked may have tipped off her superiors. 

As they got closer to the hideout, she began to get this ever increasing sense of  _wrong_. This location was pretty much constantly in use, but there were no lookouts. No miners sitting outside getting fresh air, no shipments being packaged. On a whim, she drew her blade, and began to walk in the quick, quiet steps needed when in hostile territory. As not-solas asked her what was wrong, she held her hand up in a simple, non-verbal answering, motioning him to be quiet. His eyes narrowed and he drew a staff from somewhere, luckily without the popping noise that followed when him and appearances from thin air were generally involved. It looked to be made out of burnt wood, or at least wood from a tree that she had never before seen, that curled into the heads of several serpents. Golden coloured, crystalline veins trailed from little gems in the eyes, and the air around its head and base seemed to radiate with heat. Hopefully, it would be nothing to draw notice from whatever had the Carta so distracted. 

The further into the base they crept, the more the hair on the back of her neck began to stand. It wasn't long before she was fully alert, poised for immediate contact, eyes scanning each corner and shadow for movement. As they headed into the mines, she began to hear the sounds of fighting. Violent battle was being waged in the deeper reaches of the mine, and it reverberated through the stone. She changed her grip on her sword, placing the back of her hand to the stone beside her. She let go of her presence of self, let her mind feel that richer, underlying connection around her. Breathing in, with the earth, pushing into the Stone and letting it lead her, down and down, pulled to the fight. It was a tumultuous battle, most of the carta warriors and prowlers facing off against... something. Something sick and...

She cursed loudly, readjusting the longsword in her hand and running down the path revealed to her. She yelled back to not-Solas, to hang in the back reaches of the fight, and to keep his mouth closed as they neared. Her adrenaline rushed through her, and she downed a phial as they got closer. It was a good hunch, upon running over and past the wounded carta at the mouth of the tunnel, she counted at least three darkspawn emissaries. She reached for the lyrium flowing within her, and pushed out a barrier, allowing herself a quick cackle as the emissaries magic sputtered out from their hands. Their angry shrieking spread out through the tunnel, shrill and wiry.

"C'MON BITCH!" she yelled into the chasm, eyes wide and sword arm steady.

_This may be the best introduction to another Carta Clan I've ever had._ she thought with another sharp burst of laughter, cleaving the first hurlock within reach in half with a single clean swipe. 

Based on the corpses lining the floor around her, both dwarven and darkspawn, the battle had already been long and viscious. As such, she was nearly disappointed when she continued to sunder the monsters before he with relative ease. Cyril reminded herself that it was best that she was not having difficulty with the fight. The warriors around her seemed shocked, at the least, by her sudden burst into the fight. But they rallied themselves quickly again, throwing themselves once more into the fight. Further down the tunnel she could note the remains of a clumsy explosion, and several sappers working to try and close off the point of darkspawn entry without causing damage to already existing tunnels. As another three hurlocks and two genlocks fell to her blade, she noticed how she danced around the magic that shot out from behind her. A familiar rhythm, one she had fallen into without thinking about. Part of her was relieved, even happy, that this weird version of her friend fought in the same patterns. Or, at least, was willing to fight in ways she would already know. The other part was pained by the revelation, and the same questions that ate at her since he first disappeared tried to eat into her mind. She cut them in two with the same strike which she felled a shriek with. The carta prowler that had nearly been slaughtered by it shot her a quick appreciative glance before slipping back into the shadows. The remaining darkspawn seemed far less 'organized', if such creatures can be outside of a blight, with the falling of the final emissary. The sappers afield seemed to work out whatever issue had them stalled at about the same time, and the darkspawn tunnel was quickly obliterated with the ear-splitting explosion of carta-brand charges. With reinforcements cut off, the battle did not last much longer, and with the death of the final shriek, the warriors let out a great cry of victory that echoed in the tunnel around them.

She re-approached not-solas, a wicked sideways grin on her face and adrenaline (and lyrium) exciting her veins. He nodded, a slightly vicious curve to his own lips, as he retook a more relaxed stance. Many of the carta surrounded them then, not in aggression, but in curiosity. Weapons sheathed as others made hasty beelines to tend to the injured. The head warrior, she assumed based on her uniform, walked towards them slowly. Her face was grim, she shot a single quizzical look over to the elf behind her, before looking over her in full. Deep blue eyes set into weathered, bronzey skin danced across her form. Her dark brown hair was chopped short, and clung in tight rings to her scalp. 

At sight of Cyril's absent arm and the glow of lyrium in her gaze, her eyes widened and brows furrowed. 

"Nice to meet ya." Cyril breathed, clasping the womans arm in solidarity.

"Shit, Cadash." she replied in a near-breathless, gravely voice. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know im writing a specific cadash but for some reason writing a specific lavellan just doesnt jive with me? ?? ?  
> sorry if thats weird lmao


	5. Moving Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey back to the main hub of the cartas activities was not particularly long, but as the adrenaline and lyrium left her system Cyril found it felt like an eternity. Not-solas healed many of the wounded members of the carta clan, but the carta is a suspicious lot by nature.

The journey back to the main hub of the cartas activities was not particularly long, but as the adrenaline and lyrium left her system Cyril found it felt like an eternity. Not-solas healed many of the wounded members of the carta clan, but the carta is a suspicious lot by nature. Several rejected the offering of healing magic, and carting them back added time to the ascent. It was, for the most part, a silent trip upwards. The carta head, Kervia, explained that they had been removing a red lyrium bloom. It was as separated from the lyrium and stone in the surrounding area as they could manage on their own, but they werent relishing the fact that they had to destroy it on their own. One of the younger lads, dead now, had suggested simply blowing the tunnel. They didn't anticipate the strength of the charges or how close the darkspawn were. The carta had a deal with a base of wardens in the area, and it wouldn't be hard to get help with the darkspawn now that they had a chance to breathe and recover, she assured Cyril. When not-solas asked why they would not seek outside help for dealing with the red lyrium, he got little more than a raised eyebrow in response.

"Who the hell even is your friend?"

"Oh that's just Zevran, don't worry about him. He doesn't have a lotta experience with carta machinations yet." she replied, amused by the scoff that the fake name prompted. 

Returning the main base of operations gave her the opportunity to more carefully examine the carta hold over the area. They were well supplied, that much would be obvious even to a novice. The caches of food and water were triple the amount necessary, there were clean, comfortable living spaces, and the medical supplies were plenty enough to make the college of herbalists blush in unison. Several brontos and carts were absent from the niche that held a comparatively unsuited stable, implying that much of the clan was out on delivery or trade. That could make negotiations a bit tough, but she figured she'd earned some wiggle room with her saving them from death and all that.

 A downpour had begun outside, she could hear the rain pounding against the open doors, the sound echoed through the mine blearily. She was reminded of the heavy rains in the fallow mire, and just allowed herself to be thankful that there were no corpses walking around. Not yet, at least. With surgeons working away at the injured and damages being cataloged, patrols reasserted themselves. All in all she was surprised for the lack of suspicious glances thrown her way, not to say a considerable amount weren't focused on the back of not-solas's head, but it was still fewer than she would have anticipated. Some of the less injured people, miners based on the fact they didn't seem to have anything better to do at the moment, began resetting up chairs and collecting papers that had fallen to the ground. They had rushed out to the point of the explosion, and she allowed herself a moment to mentally scold them for not keeping a closer eye on an experimental force. 

Kervia had disappeared from her side at some point, but reemerged with bottles of ale and a platter of sweet rolls. She beckoned for them to sit with her at a relatively fancy table that sat on top of a dais in the far side of the living space. The platform was carved of fine granite, and Cyril imagined it had served as a place for announcements in the days when the mine was still just a human quarry. Kervia casually leaned back in her chair and propped her legs up on the table, arms folded across her chest. When Cyril was younger, she might have simply viewed Kervia as a very relaxed leader, but as inquisitor she had been trained to recognize and control body language. Kervia's calm demeanor was betrayed by her sharp, darting gaze and the tightness in her shoulders. She was either still tense and agitated from the fight, or she didn't trust the strangers in her midst. Cyril wouldn't blame her for it, one way or the other. For her own part, she sat across from Kervia, chin held high but shoulders relaxed as she leaned back as well. A posture developed to show that she would act and be treated as an equal, no more or less. Not-solas sat with the dignity of a high standing Orleasian marquis out to brunch, but luckily without the same attitude of superiority. Kervia corked and slid the bottles over before plucking up one of the rolls, eyes glancing briefly at the people set to work behind them, her glower softening to a tight frown momentarily before she reestablished eye contact. 

"So I assume you want something." she said at length.

"People generally do, but when they come to the carta its usually one of a few pretty specific somethings." Cyril said before taking a swig of the ale. It was sweeter than she'd expect from the carta, but there didn't seem to be any underlying flavours that suggested the honey was used to mask poison. Cyril, of course, had built an immunity to at least twelve different poisons, but it was nice to see know venom hidden behind a polite gesture for once.  

"That is true," Kervia conceded, eyes narrowing slightly, "So, are you here for lyrium? I doubt that, the lauded inquisitor would have her own steady supply from more... reputable sources. You can't be here for muscle, you just took out half a horde of darkspawn nearly unassisted. I doubt you're looking for hired killers, the inquisition has scouts and agents, and word has it you know a few crows. I would be hard pressed to believe you need us for smuggling, you've had friends and contacts for that long before the chantry wanted to blow their noses in your robes. So I suppose that could leave that you're looking for information, something you need to know that your inquisition doesn't have access to or that you don't trust them to find." her voice was rugged, but barely above a whisper. Her head turned to the side at the end of her summation of carta clan jobs, and she assessed Cyril with a touch more scrutiny. 

"Actually," Cyril answered with the slightest smirk, "I need your clans help for just about all of that."

Leaning forward, she could feel her excitement building, hand on the table she quietly asked, "how would your clan feel about getting into the world-saving business?" 

\-- 

Lavellan paced through ancient pews and down ancient steps, marveling a bit at the artistry and fluidity of the architecture around her. Growing up, she had day dreamed about the ancients often. How they lived and breathed magic, how all the land new their steps, how they supposedly knew freedom and peace as none had before. As she grew older, and her eyes more readily accepted the world as it was, she knew she was wrong about such fantasies. Elvhenan was an empire, and if Orlais or the Imperium were any evidence, that meant it had been filled with suffering. The powerful lording over the powerless, big over small, injustices perpetuated by people who would speak against them over gilded goblets, chastising the world for how wrong it was but not doing anything to fix it. But, if nothing else, the ancients had time. Time, and a good eye for colour. She allowed herself to admit that she loved the spiraling marble halls and the gardens that surrounded them. She loved to see how the wealth of knowledge the library contained excited even the oldest of her people, but she felt the tiniest bit of shame over such feelings as she imagined servants working tirelessly to keep the floors sparkling. 

The floors did not sparkle now, they were cracked and caked with dust. The gardens were wild, roots and vines wandering in the palace as though the dingy marble could offer just as well a home as the open air and sunlight. For all she knew, maybe they did. She wasn't a mage, she didn't have understanding of how such things might work. But she understood how people worked, and while the grand sanctuary surrounding her filled her with the wonderment of her youth, the pithy remarks and unapologetic sneers of the ancient elves who lived here left her feeling hollow. As such she set to explore, to wander the area permitted for such explorations in search of a garden that Ghilavir assured her held the stars. 

_You'll love it! I don't know if its the water itself or if there's some sort of crystal beneath it that causes it to look that way, but it's juts like the night sky over the mountains. I have lessons to attend but its not hard to find, its past that room in the southwest corridor that seemed to hold an altar at some point! The one where Iraslin fell trying to jump across the balcony? That was kinda funny but..._

She let the memory of her friends excited retelling slip away from focus as she sighed and rounded another corner that led down a seemingly endless hallway. She didn't want to admit that she was lost, but it's not like she knew where she was either. A heavy sigh split the silence as she continued searching, chastising herself for not asking Ghilavir to draw up a map or something. Maybe she should have waited for her studies to be finished, but Lavellan was beginning to run a little stir crazy. She wasn't used to being in one place for such a long time, even when the clan had settled in Wycome, she still roamed the surrounding area and made journeys to other clans and cities. The ornate halls around her were like a dream, but anything particularly fancy was bound to make somebody who appreciated more mundane surroundings uncomfortable at some point. Trekking along the confusing passages at least allowed her a chance to continue building her mental map of the place. Whatever it was before, it hadn't been built under the premise that it could be attacked at some point. There were far too many choke points, and a good army could lay waste the inhabitants quickly. She thought about the implications of the shattered mosaics and burned stones glumly. Too much of their history had been lost, and the back of her mind was nagged by the idea that more of it was being hidden from them still. 

She turned down another hall and into a spiraling staircase. Ghilavir probably would have mentioned the staircase given that it was covered in bright pink and purple flowers, but curiosity and the urge to be even a little closer to the open sky gripped her tight. She began her ascension, trying to tell herself it was just as likely that the tower would lead to a closed of room as it would an open sky. Still, she bounded the stairs two at a time, and her startled yelp transformed quickly into a delighted laugh as she realized the pink flowers were actually butterflies. They flew up and around her at once, a fluttering cloud of petal like wings filling the air. Her childhood amazement surged back and settled into her heart contently as they sparkled in the air, and with further glee she continued up the stairs. 

As it turned out, there were quite a lot of stairs. And although her tiny winged companions kept her company the entire trip up, she was still winded as she finally landed at the top of the tower. The top room had several floor to ceiling windows, enclosed only by trellises less than half their height. A balcony on one end had tiny blue flowers wrapping around its surfaces. The sunset was barely visible over the tops of giant trees across crystalline lakes. The butterflies settled onto nearly every available surface, skewing the view of some of the murals painted on the walls and ceiling. Opposite the balcony sat a truly impressive mirror, glass that did not reflect the room was adorned in a network of spinning golden vines and opal sigils. She felt a moment of annoyance that she couldn't remember the name of such mirrors, but didn't let it sit long her throat as she moved towards the balcony. She took in the sky with eager eyes, deeply breathing in the smell of the forest around her. The sun set slowly, deep ambers and reds fading to violet and finally deep blue as the stars shone overhead. Eyes turned upwards, a breeze drifting across her face, she let herself feel at home in the night. 

A bright flash behind her almost startled her enough to consider jumping over and hanging off the edge of the railing, but she made herself freeze, reminding herself that she was allowed to be here because nobody had said otherwise. 

_It isn't like I snuck up here... not intentionally, at least._

Lavellan turned to look at the mirror, which several surprised and slightly disgruntled fancy elves were slowly walking out of. Magic was always humming in the air here, but the mirrors activation seemed to reverberate through her. She stood tall, trying not to let her discomfort show. As the final elves of the party emerged and the mirror blinked back into silence, the air seemed to freeze. Nobody moved or spoke, even the breathing seemed hushed. The bald man at the fore looked nearly shocked at her presence, which left her wondering if maybe she  _was_ trespassing.

Slowly, she raised a hand and spoke, "Uh... hi?" 

\--

"Well, you know how to make a cryptic sales pitch if nothing else. Maybe some elaboration could be given before we throw ourselves headfirst into 'world saving'. I don't intend on losing any more of my people to monsters, Cadash." Kervia eventually said after glaring between Cyril and not-solas for a long amount of time. 

"Hopefully it won't come to monster fighting. I'm trying something far more... covert, than the inquisition could allow." Cyril replied with a small nod. 

An outright refusal would have been a serious damper to her mood, but Kervia looked the bargaining type. Cyril tried to keep her face relatively neutral, but the twitching at the corners of her mouth led to a full blown smile, which seemed to take Kervia off guard. 

"I don't want a big fancy army or a ridiculous amount of followers who barely know what I look like. I don't need a massive force or any cocked up politics. I need people who can get the job done quickly, quietly, and without wanting to screw each other over for brief and vague promises of golden underpants. I know the carta is filled with plenty of ambitious shits, but in this I think unity can be expected and encouraged. And if you don't wanna pull up your entire clan, I get it. You've got a damn good operation going here and I know things have been tight since the circle of magi became the college and the templars sort of... stopped. But any help you can give would be appreciated, I don't know any other clans that have quite the same resolution as you guys." 

Kervia's eyes narrowed again at her reply, and she brought up one hand to cup her chin, scratching lightly at the stubble along her jaw. For a while it became something of a staring contest, waiting to see who might waver. Cyril had to tamp down harshly on the urge to waggle her eyebrows. If Kervia weren't quite so serious, doing so may have actually helped, but it was obvious that the warrior in front of her had been through more than enough to be wary of any offers.

"So, you get the skills of my clan against whatever you're against. What's in it for us?" her voice was low and speculative, in the hushed volume, the rugged cut of her voice nearly dissipated entirely.

"Well," Cyril replied, lightly drumming her knuckles against the table,"I, of course, have information that could help your clan rebuild and establish a larger presence. I have contacts that could strengthen whatever deals you already have in the world, and more than that... I have business. I can get you mines and land that would belong to your clan and your clan alone. I have a seat on the merchants guild now, so I can get you partnerships outside of the free marches and within its more sequestered sects. And I can get your clan protection, the wardens of Orlais have an open partnership with my organization, they're a scruffy lot but they'd love the chance to get into the thick of things out here." she spoke carefully, not slowly to imply that the deal would have underlying loopholes, but in a manner that she hoped would tell Kervia she was being sincere. 

Kervia went quiet again, the only sound was the brief shuffling of work behind them and the far off echo of mining being resumed. Not-solas shifted in the seat beside her, crossing his arms but thankfully not trying to offer any snide comments or further incentives. His eyes were narrowed as well, locked firmly on Kervia who once again darted her gaze between them. Cyril nearly spoke again, but before she had the chance Kervia smiled suddenly, leaning forward with a hand outstretched. 

"Honestly, you had me at business. Welcome to Clan Valac, Inquisitor." her voice was higher as she spoke excitedly. Eyes open wide again with a light dancing within them. As the two shook hands to finalize their deal, Cyril felt her excitement build again in full force. This time, she did not attempt to contain it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took longer for me to upload than i had hoped   
> tbh i thought only like three days had passed  
> i have no idea how time works any more, im pretty sure sandwich making exists in some sort of pocket dimension 
> 
> love to anybody who reads this!! hope ya liked it!


	6. Right in the kisser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan gets to a first name basis and Cyril has some fun the ol' fashioned way

Lavellan lapsed back into silence, then. For several breaths, that's all that there was. She stared at the group that came through the mirror, and they stared back at her. Some of them looked at her in confusion or curiosity, a few with indifference, only one seemed angry. As far as she could tell that may have just been their face, though. As a few turned to whisper to each other and the man who seemed to be leading them, the urge to toss herself back over the railing began to grow again. She turned just enough to grip it, which drove a few eyes to turn back to her sharply. She didn't know what should would really do if she actually threw herself over the edge, though. She tried to grit her teeth against the growing panic, but the urgency she felt did not seem to diminish much even as she forced herself to take very careful breaths. The ancients hadn't been actively hostile with her people yet, as far as she knew. Whispers and sideways looks were just a part of being elvhen, as detestable as such behaviour was, she was used to it. As time passed slowly on and their whispering continued, she resorted to rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. The room wasn't particularly large, if they were expecting her to leave they'd need to move from the stairs. Most of them seemed content to continue they're near-silent gossiping. The bald one and a sad looking man to his side finally realized the awkwardness of the situation, and a louder instructions were given with curt nods and grasped arms. Most of the group left through the mirror, which sent the air to tingling across her skin. Almost the rest of the group left down the stairs, the angry one narrowing their eyes tightly at her, assessing, before heading down. That left her alone in the room with the bald one and the sad one. The bald one stepped forward and inclined his head to her, there was no mocking in the motion or haughty expression to his eyes. When he spoke, he did so clearly and looked into her eyes directly. She was still suspicious of the motivations of the ancient elves surrounding her, but greatly appreciated the few that treated her as someone on equal footing. 

"I apologize. This area was meant to be warded off as it was still being prepared for new arrivals, we were startled to find you here, but that does not excuse such a rude reaction." he spoke smoothly, arms tucked behind his back, and he inclined his head to her with his apology. 

"It's not a reaction I am unfamiliar with, but I appreciate the apology, and offer you my own. There were no wards or signs saying not to enter, I did not mean to inadvertently trespass." Lavellan stated plainly, curious about the stranger but worried over his reaction. She was worried that perhaps Ghilavir dispelled the wards that had been set out, if he didn't ask, she wouldn't mention it. 

His eyes narrowed and noise scrunched before he spoke again.

"Have you been treated unwell here?"

"It hasn't been the warmest welcome, but not the worst any of us have received. The people here don't seem to know how to feel about us."

"We must aim to do better, I will speak with the others. May I escort you back to the common area?" She really hoped Ghilavir hadn't disabled any wards. 

She bit down on her decline of his offer, he seemed sincere enough, but she wasn't entirely comfortable with marching back to main part of the sanctuary with two ancient elves. It wouldn't be entirely comfortable of a procession, people can be presumptuous and she didn't need any members of her clan trying to rush to her 'defense' if the wrong assumption was taken. The man with the sad eyes and Mythal's vallaslin did not speak, just walked slowly at their side as they began the descent back down. The silence did not do anything to lessen her discomfort, but it did not do much to exaggerate it either. They took faster pace leaving than she had during her roaming. She decided this was simply due to the gentlemen with her knowing their way, and not because they were impatient with her. Their expressions were very neutral, they almost seemed a tad bored. It left her wondering if this wasn't actually the first time this had happened, but wasn't certain if she was willing to ask. 

Halfway through the trek back, the silence began to eat at her. This place seemed more alive than most of Thedas, but felt... quieter. Despite the colour and the life present in the gardens, despite the magic in the air and walls around her, despite the sublime elegance of the ancients that housed themselves within the sanctuary, there was so little presence. It was empty, the colours of once grand mosaics and murals had clearly faded, and the people so dissatisfied with the world that it felt as though they were hiding from life. Spilling these ruminations into the air would be unlikely to win any favour with her hosts, so Lavellan pushed the thought away to focus on more casual conversation. 

"So... have you two known each other a while then?" her voice felt small in the large hall surrounding them, her voice mingling with the echo of footsteps across the tiles. 

"Abelas and I became antiquated little more than three years ago. There are others here and elsewhere that we are each more familiar with, however." 

Glancing over and seeing Abelas' dour expression, the solemn look in his eyes, and the frown lines that seemed a permanent feature to his expression, she nodded to herself.

_Yeah, that's a fitting name._

She gives the man who has been speaking a sideways glance, asking after his name. He is quiet for a time, as though he is considering, he sighs and closes his eyes for a short moment before looking back to her. She looks straight into his eyes, as he had courteously done for her before, and keeps her expression as blank as possible.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions." 

\--

Carta celebrations are just as raucous as Cyril remembered, to her great relief, being its been way too long since she's gotten to drink fine dwarven ale, it's even direct from Orzammar! Toasts to the dead are a somber thing, but celebrations over survival and a promising deal with her new "organization" are loud, obnoxious, and _fun_. She misses Sera. 

Not-Solas joins in on the drinking meagerly, he's no need for it, so she's mostly certain he does it just as a friendly thing for her. He takes hearty gulps of his ale slowly, long amounts of time pass between each swig. He does not speak much with the members of the carta, but his eyes are curious and assessing. Likely he's squirreling away all of the information to review later, a better understanding for the top side children of the stone. No observations are shared vocally, he does not respond to the few quips passed in his direction. She misses Solas.

It's possible she gets a little too drunk. 

She feels a bit electrified, a little silly. The ale and the general adrenaline of her recent activities seem to wrap her completely in intoxication. She joins in on belting old songs with the clan warriors. They sing about battles against glorious beasts, contending with warriors true, and several songs about finding loose maidens in taverns. Such songs generally make her uncomfortable, but she knows the words and is willing to be silly, tonight. If Not-Solas wants to talk about it, she'll chalk her behaviour up to cementing the clans trust and not to her being irresponsible in how she handles her own emotions. Cause that would be inappropriate, and hypocritical. As the ragtag band of musicians begin setting the pace for the next song, she slams down in the seat next to not-solas, and downs the rest of her tankard. 

"How's is about 'Kallak'? It means uh... war. In the old language, d'you like that one for a name at all?" she slurs out, slumping against him and swiping the closest unopened bottle. 

"It is not entirely unfitting, but I would still prefer something in my own language." he replies, with a small chuckle that twists her stomach. She tries to grab his wrist with her left arm, before remembering it's not there.

She harshly rips the cork from the bottle with her teeth and spits out, smacking a warrior named Vortag straight between the eyes. 

"Ohkay well, you teach me at some point and we'll get it sorted out." she replies before downing the bottle without pause.

She stands to go find another drink, stumbling a bit and allowing not-Solas to help keep her up. She smiles at him before walking off, and doesn't realize immediately that Vortag is following her. As she gets to the booth where two very bored youths are passing out drinks, he pulls on her shoulder, spinning her around. He shoves the cork in her facing angrily, the smell of ale on him is stronger even than it is on her.

"You dropped this." he sneers, wretched breath hot against her cheeks, causing her eyes to water.

"By the Stone you smell like the inside of a latrine." she chokes out, covering her nose with her hand and trying to back up. 

It was evidently the wrong response, if the fist she quickly finds in her face is any indication. Behind Vortag and across the room, Not-Solas quickly stands, eyes sharp and fists clenching around lightning in his grasp. The people in the area surrounding him quickly back off in alarm, gasps and shocked cries flying into the air in their wake. She waves him off, a little unsteadily.

"Don't worrrry about it, didn't even hurt." she calls to him. She can feel blood from her nose travelling down her face, but she's either too drunk to feel it, or has a better pain tolerance than she had realized. 

This, turns out, was also the wrong response. As Vortag cries out in anger and slams his fist into her head again. She could have forgiven the first punch, she did sort of hit him first. But the second one fires up all the aggression she'd been burying within her. She smiles, and licks the blood from her lip. Her sideways toothy grin and sharp eyes always used to terrify the boys who tried to pick on her when she was little, but it only seems to make Vortag angrier. She rolls into the center of the room, away from the kids working the casks. If this is going to be ugly, she'll let it be ugly. But she won't let anybody else get dragged in if she can avoid it. Getting back to her feet from her sloppy combat roll is not the most graceful affair, she staggers but gets into her fighting stance. Her armour is packed away into the 'guest' room she and Not-Solas had been afforded, but Vortag is still in his steel. Not the most advantageous of situations, but before she can think to just back down, he comes at her swinging. He gets a glancing blow against her left side before she tucks in and rolls around him again, pushing behind him in full force and sending him to the ground. She lands a good, heavy kick against his back before he corrects himself and twists back away and up. She feels the familiar layer of a barrier fall over her, and is surprised as she notes what looks like stone pulling up and close around her. A quick glance at Not-Solas confirms he's cast some sort of armour on her, and she smirks smugly before diving back into the fight. His eyes are hard, a tight frown pulling against his face, but she's thankful for reluctant help he's provided. She slides against the ground and knocks Vortag off his feet again, and uses the rest of her momentum to pull herself on top of his chest. She gets a knee in his throat, and tries to use her weight to keep him down without choking him. Her fist slams into him a few solid times before somebody else joins the fray, pulling her off and shoving her into the crowd. The people the catch her pat her on the back, and cheer for her to keep going. It doesn't take long after that for the crowd to form into a ring, and the band starts up again. It's two against one, now. Vortag and the woman that had shoved Cyril off of him form up well together. Despite the heavy fog in the young woman's eyes, her stance is steady and her movements are quick. For a while, Cyril is simply avoiding, kicking out when she can. By rolling between the two of them when they attempt to bracket her, she gets them colliding into each other and crashing into the ground. They laugh, she laughs, the gathering crowd laughs. Not-Solas mostly looks perturbed and concerned. 

She's about to try and roll over them again when Kervia joins in the fray. She nods to Cyril before taking her own stance. Fists close to her face, arms loose, left leg in front of the other. Two against two, Cyril likes those odds even better. Cyril bolts in and knocks Vortag onto his side, out of reach of his second. Kervia starts boxing with the woman, swift movements and a lot jeering pass between them. As Cyril presses her knee into the back of Vortag's head, she can loosely hear bets being placed, one of the boys from the casks taking coin as the other records who bet what. Cyril gets knock back as Vortag stands again, and she admonishes herself for being distracted from the fight. He falls again in short order, but lands a pointed brace solidly into the flesh of her left arm. The cry of pain that tears itself from her almost silences the crowd, Kervia and the woman she'd taken to sparring with stop and stare. Vortag backs up and falls on his knees and asks something, but she can't really focus on what he's saying. She presses the stump of her arm closer to her side and sits up. 

"Ah, shit,  _dick_." she eloquently states before jabbing him harshly in the throat. 

A swift kick to his chest sends him sprawling against the ground then, his mouth is covered in blood and she broke his nose at some point, but he mostly just stares at her arm regretfully as he goes down. She puts one foot lightly on his chest, and Kervia sends her opponent to the ground in much the same manner. The crowd yells and cheers, people collect winnings or else fight each other over losses. She helps Vortag to his feet but doesn't stay to shake his hand or take a drink with him. She clutches at her arm and tries to hide the pain from her face. 

_Well that coulda been a lot more fun._

As she stumbles into Not-Solas, the rock armour fades away and he places the gentlest of healing touches to her arm. She can vaguely hear Kervia scolding Vortag over the din of the room, but can bring herself to try to shrug any of it off. It was an accident, she knows that. But her fingers itch and she can't do anything about it. She wants to crack knuckles that are gone, to flex muscles that burned away. She lets out a heavy sigh, and chugs down some water before leaving the room. Not-Solas is quiet as he walks beside her, glowering over his shoulder.

"I do not understand your objections to smiting your enemies."

"I - pffffffftwhat?" she asks, stopping short of the stairs and nearly tumbling over them. 

"You do not wish to kill my counter part, and you did not try to kill the man who just assaulted you. Why?"

"Well Solas is my friend, I think there's something that can be done to save him. And bar fights aren't really... well... they just don't work that way. Or at least mine don't. Some are probably deadly and taken to with real... anger... but that? In there? That was just venting. That was just a cocky old warrior and a retired inquisitor duking it out for fun. At least it woulda been fun if he hadn't fallen on me like that. But that was just an accident, and I hit him pretty hard in the throat. I'll probably hit him again, at some point. 'Smiting' isn't the only solution to arguments." she tries to explain, it mostly comes out in slurred and stuttering rush. She can barely understand herself.

Yeah definitely too drunk. She pats him on the back and promises to explain the nuances of bar fighting, the importance of the difference between a tavern and a bar, and why she's partial to such methods some other day. She thinks she promises that, at least. Mostly she just stumbles up the stairs mumbling and making wild motions with her hand. 

As she lays down the sleep, it feels like there's lead in her side. A few silent tears and shakey breaths manage to work their way out of her, before she sighs, and rolls over, thankful that she's always been a fast sleeper. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a lil bit short and took a while to come out sorry about that!!


	7. Breakfast at Kervias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril wakes in a panic, arm and head throbbing, with the intention to at least slightly organize the new piles of weird shit in her life.

Cyril wakes slowly, the deep of sleep shrugging off of her in waves. In a sudden and panicked start, she rises, breath caught in her throat as she tries to reach out. No left hand. Her breath releases in a shaking rush, hard and heavy like the Stone around her. She rests her head against the Stone, clutching at the broken stump on her side. Her eyes sting but she bites down on her lip, promptly telling her tears to back off. She listens to the Stone, the echoing of mining in the distance, voices flitting through passages like a breeze. She focuses on the cool air, the smell of the earth, and forces herself to take deep, even breaths. Her night shirt is soft on her skin, her breeches loose around her calves, and the Stone beats and breathes with her. She opens her eyes at the sound of a quick rap against the door. Wiping away any moisture that had accumulated she stands, nearly keeling over as she takes to her feet too quickly. Her head throbs a bit and her stomach lurches, she didn't get nearly enough water in her system before conking out last night. She rights herself and evens out her shirt as she strides over to the door. 

Not-Solas is standing outside, arms at his side, casting a slight glare down the hall. His eyes flit over her and narrow once, in a silent motion a healing spell drifts through her, repairing minor bumps and bruises left from the night before and taking the stress out of her head and stomach. She leans against the door frame and raises one eyebrow, peeking around the corner to see what had him set on edge so early. Vortag is standing scant feet away, eyes on the ground, a bouquet of wild flowers in his hands. She snorts a bit before laughing and beckoning him forward.

"What are you doing?" she asks as he hands her the flowers, Not-Solas barely stepping aside enough for him to maneuver towards her.

"I'm not completely without my manners, little apology s'ats all. Wouldn't go sniffin at em too much though, theyre toxic if ingested." he said with a smile bow before walking back down the hall, back rigid as Not-Solas' eyes follow him.

"Pfft, boys are dumb." she laughs quietly before turning back into the room. Toxic flowers could at least prove a little useful though, if she boils them with the right herbs.

"Kervia has invited us to join her for breakfast." Not-Solas says to her softly, eyes still scanning the hall for threats, perceived or otherwise.

"Do you plan on eating or sitting there and mapping out peoples weaknesses and motivations?"

"I see no reason why I could not attempt both." He answers in humor, she avoids looking into his too-familiar eyes.

Kervia doesn't sit at the table on the dais for breakfast, which Cyril is surprisingly relieved by. The hall is arranged for a buffet, a variety of foods, common and less-so, lined up along several tables pushed against one wall. Kervia is situated near to one of the corners, tankard in hand and eyes watching the high table. It seems to be occupied by children and elderly, and a few of the remaining injured. The youngsters who had been in charge of ale distribution the following night seem to be recounting the fight to the others seated around them. The taller one has a flair for theatre, reenacting several movements and adding a touch of drama exaggeration. He's not a bad story teller, Varric would probably like him.

She fills her plate with eggs, meats, and some sort of grainy mush before grabbing a mug of water. Solas fills a plate with fruits and takes a sweet wine before following her to Kervia's table. Kervia lifts her tankard with a grin and nod, a heavy bruise snaking up her arm and a new chip in one tooth. The fight doesn't seem to have shaken anybody out of the bargain, however, most people just congratulate her and nag on Vortag and his partner. Vortag is sitting with a group of chiseled old warriors that almost seem more beard than dwarf, but they raise their drinks to her in good cheer despite their haggard faces. The woman who Kervia was sparring with sits across from her, bruises along her face but spirits high. Her long braids of hair pulled back into a tight bun, and golden her skin seemed to glow in the light provided by cool lyrium and warm torches. She finishes chewing before speaking, her voice softer than Cyril might have expected. 

"Damn good fight, inquisitor. Bet that physique of yours comes in handy for a lot of things." she says with a wink as Cyril plops down beside Kervia.

"Easy, kid, I'm a married woman." Cyril answers before popping a cut of ram into her mouth. 

The woman points a confused and accusatory glance towards Not-Solas that causes Cyril to nearly choke on her food laughing. Kervia rolls her eyes and launches a grape at the woman.

"So is she, inquisitor." Kervia rumbles, "My cousin's wife, Janessa. Young and a bit hot headed but the finest sapper I've got." Janessa winks again with her introduction before eating the grape that landed in her cabbage after hitting her in the head. She makes a face at the mix of flavours, nose wrinkling a bit, and it pushes another laugh out of Cyril.

Kervia and Janessa tease each other a bit more as Cyril works at her food. The eggs are a little cold at this point but that doesn't come as much of a surprise. She considers asking Not-Solas to set her food on fire for a moment as she shovels a spoon full of the mush into her mouth. It's... corn. Weird. Why is it corn? Who's idea was it to turn corn into a mush? She keeps eating though, nodding occasionally at questions directed to her. She finishes the corn mush and decides not to eat it again unless in emergency. She slices some of the ram into smaller pieces with her fork as Kervia mocks Janessa for some failed trap involving nets, a priceless vase, and a nug.

"Well it  _would've_ worked if Pops hadn't left his tankard behind the display."

"I really doubt Vortag's drink was what caused that to fail." 

Before Janessa can get out a rebuttal a young man settles onto the segment of bench next to her, and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek. She giggles a bit and kisses his nose. Kervia rolls her eyes again and Not-Solas sets to slicing the pears on his plate without looking away from the people around them. Kervia's cousin introduces himself as Rouran, shaking her hand stiffly. His fingers are calloused and his knuckles are cracked, there's dust along his hands and arms, it covers most of his apron heavily. An enchanter, she surmises before he states it himself. His eyes are wide and bright, like Dagna's, but he angles himself away from the false god at her side, whereas Dagna would have been utterly fascinated with him. The conversation continues but Cyril loses focus, day dreaming about having Dagna and Sera come to join her. Dagna would probably adapt to it better, probably would want to run some tests on Not-Solas. Sera... Sera's fear of magic isn't as potent as it had been when they'd first met, but she would probably be uncomfortable with this. She'd want Cyril to tell her all the same wouldn't she? 

Cyril is running over how she could even word this sort of thing when the conversation focuses on her. 

"I bet you know a lot of impressive enchanters though, huh?" Rouran asks, head quirking a bit to the side. 

"Oh, uh personally I only really know one. She's fantastic though, and your art has my total respect. It can't be easy working with such complicated patterns... or rhythms... whatever they exactly are?" she answers in a bit of a rush.

"I once knew a quite gifted enchanter named Sandal." Not-Solas quietly states beside her. His eyes are far off again, and she tries not to tense defensively as Rouran suddenly shifts to regard him fully. 

"You know Bodahn's boy?" Kervia asks, cutting off whatever Rouran was about to say with a hard glare. 

"Indeed, I lived in Kirkwall for a short time." he answers, eyes coming back into focus as he corrects his posture to look at Kervia. 

 _Left shoulder out, torso towards Kervia. Forms a shell with the body... one hell of a dismissive gesture._ Cyril notes, glancing sharply at Rouran. Not-Solas must have noticed the change in tone in Kervia's speech. Rouran is frowning a bit at his cousin as she and Not-Solas discuss city life, mostly scrunching their faces disdainfully at the smells prevalent in the city of chains. 

An older man from somewhere behind Cyril calls Rouran's name, he seems to deflate a bit, but the frown leaves his face and he kisses Janessa again before snagging an apple from her and rushing off. Not-Solas relaxes a bit as he leaves, but not completely. She chews on more lamb but there's questions racing through her mind. When Janessa leaves work on something, Cyril regards Kervia. The agitation on Kervia's face has drained, but there are still traces of it in her eyes. 

"Does he have some issue with Sandal?" she whispers, leaning in a bit towards Kervia. 

"The boy is envious of his skill. Takes to bullying Sandal's way of processing the world to make up for his own damn insecurities. With how many times he's been scolded for it you'd think he'd stop, I'm getting right fed up with his attitude." She answered, bluntly and without lowering her voice.

Cyril nods and startles a bit at the sliced fruit Solas deposits onto her plate. He's started slicing the fruit on his own into tiny cubes, staring at them a little sadly before turning his eyes back up to regard the room. With their backs to most of it, he's likely not getting much information on anyone. Cyril sighs as she remembers he doesn't need to be looking for weaknesses. Unless he's planning on trying to offer up knowledge on how people could over come them, but she finds that doubtful given how defensively he'd reacted the previous night. The rest of their breakfast is finished in relative silence, the din of the hall at the back of her focus. Somebody brings Kervia a map at some point, and once the food is finished, they begin to chart out how they're getting the clan that needs to be transferred over to Cyril's new "headquarters". She gives Kervia the brief structural descriptions and ideas she had, and a group of the clans smugglers is called up to go over what tools and various other goods they'll need. She stresses firmly how secret everything needs to be. No passing along information to other clans or traders, she reiterates time and time again how imperative it is that this information stays close to the chest. She begins to sound a little too political for her tastes, and forces herself to slow down as Not-Solas hands off his diced fruit to one of the littler children to snack on. He almost groans when a younger smugglers quietly asks her if 'Zevran' will be needing his own supply lyrium for anything, and it takes all of her restraint to keep from laughing at the expression on Not-Solas' face. 

-

It's nearly noon when the supplies, construction, and personnel lists are finished. She's sipping at a cup of Fereldan breakfast tea and writing up copies of the trade and land documents for her side of their bargain when Rouran approaches her. He quietly takes the seat across from her and fidgets with the hem of his apron as she finishes. When she looks up he sits up straight, eyes sharp, before relaxing again and placing his hands flat on the table.

"Did your friend really live in Kirkwall?"

"That was before I knew him." she answers with a shrug.

He hums in response with a slow nod before his eyes take to tracing the panels of the back wall. She sets to getting the wax and stamp set out from her satchel. As she seals them with her official seal and binds them tightly she can feel his eyes on her again. She doesn't look at him as she files away her copies and packs the official documents. She's reviewing her personal map of the inquisition strongholds in the area when she speaks again, "why do you ask?" she says casually, trying to seem politely bored by the conversation.

"I just don't recall ever seeing him there."

Cyril looks up at him there, arching a brow and cocking her head to the side with an amused huff. 

"Uh-huh, and did you spend all of your time memorizing the faces and names of the elves in the entire city? Bald or otherwise?" she asks, shooting a quick glance towards the outer doors that Not-Solas had walked through only moments ago.

"Well... no, but he said he knew Sandal and-"

"Aaaand you spent all of your time with Sandal? Paid attention to his ins and outs? Spied on him? Followed him around just for fun?"

"Wh- no! No of course not I just-"

"You assumed you'd somehow know a man who likely spent much, if not all, of his time in Kirkwall hiding from the templars just because you both knew Sandal?" her eyebrow is truly reaching impressive heights at this point. She's leaning back in her chair, arm folded tightly across her chest as she stares at him skeptically. 

He flusters and stammers out an apology, one rough hand coming up to tousle the thick, dark curls on his head. Some dust comes loose when he does so, forming a bit of a cloud around his head that glows slightly when the door opens behind him. His eyes are darting across the walls again, uncertain and a touch remorseful. 

"What are you so nervous about?" she ventures, letting her eyebrow drop back into place and putting a kinder touch to her tone. 

"Uh... I don't rightly know, I guess. It's just... you're the inquisitor."

"Only technically. If you ignore the missing arm and the title, I'm just another carta brute with a bad attitude." she ventures a wink, hoping to diffuse the growing anxiety he's trying badly to hide. 

"You... must know a lot of amazing people." Rouran responds quietly, looking down at the table as he does so.

"I'm glad to say that list is ever growing. Just today I got to meet another amazing enchanter. That brings me up to two." 

"I uh..."

"Listen kid, you've got insecurities chipping away at your shoulder and anxiety stuck to ya like the dust in your hair. There's no reason for it. Kervia doesn't seem to me like the type keep on slackers or unskilled kids. You know your trade, it's not an easy set of skills to get down-pat, I certainly never understood the stuff. You should be proud of the talents you've developed, not constantly comparing yourself to others. I got to see some of your work earlier and I promise you, there's nothing to be draggin yourself down over. You're fantastic, let yourself revel in it from time to time." 

His face goes blank, and he seems to completely freeze. He doesn't look away from her or shift when Not-Solas takes the seat at her side. She begins to wonder if that wasn't the wrong thing to say, when slowly a sheepish grin spreads on his face, revealing a dimple on his left cheek that she hadn't noticed in the morning. He thanks her enthusiastically and all but bounces out of his seat, practically skipping out of the room. She aligns a pair of delicate magnets to her map and begins to speak with Not-Solas about their continued travels. Before she can get very far into the conversation, however, a pair of Kervia's runners approach, clad in sturdy traveling. The look enough alike that Cyril wonders if they aren't sisters. They each have pale, freckled skin, and narrow brown eyes. Coppery hair curls around the edges of their faces, the seemingly younger of the two wearing it longer than the other. Her long hair is bound in a tight braid that is tossed over one shoulder. Her cloak is more of blue compared to her sisters deep green, her gear camouflaged in brighter colours and more plant like patterns. They introduce themselves as Selena and Dawn, Dawn brushing her ovenly chopped bangs out of her face as she speaks while Selene adjusts her braid.

"Kervia said you needed the fleetest runners." she speaks in even monotone.

"Yes, it's a bit strange of a task, but I need you to fetch a relative of mine from Honnleath."

"Who is this relative."

Cyril smirked as she answered, a laugh catching in her throat. 

"Her name is Shale, you'll probably find her smashing pigeons." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this came so late and is kind of short! work makes me exhausted and a friend recently died so i havent been in the jolliest of moods and its made it very difficult to focus!


	8. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan can't decide if Solas' name fits him or not. When they'd first exchanged introductions, she didn't see it. He stood with a near-haughty posture at times, but mostly he just seemed... distant. And a little anguished.

Lavellan can't decide if Solas' name fits him or not. When they'd first exchanged introductions, she didn't see it. He stood with a near-haughty posture at times, but mostly he just seemed... distant. And a little anguished. He spends more time around her own people, offering advice but maintaining a polite distance. His fellows' feathers seemed ruffled when he'd escorted her into the hall. They were gradually becoming more polite, some even friendly, as he spent more time among them. Those who continued to act with derision were scolded out right, publicly and everything! She didn't bother containing her laughter on a memorable occasion where a particularly turned his nose up at a woman from the Eldarin clan, claiming her value was in her bosom and not her magic, and Solas actually smacked him upside the head. Three of the others dragged the offender off and yelled at him, while two others apologized profusely and Solas looked appropriately aghast. The particularly hollow sound his head made when smacked is what had set her to laughing. 

Solas spoke to her then, quietly, inquiring over the well being of her people and her own well being. When she admitted to feeling a bit stifled, he found her a relatively unoccupied library, and the next day introduced her to a practice field. She waged a quiet one-woman-war against a practice dummy before an older woman from Nevarra approached her. Ethanin had soft muscle, dark bronzey skin patterned with intense freckles, and a mouth filled with chipped teeth. Her left ear had been a bit shredded, but she made up the difference with an elaborate, jeweled cuff.

"Despite how the shems treat the dead back home, their crypts have surprisingly low security. And so many of the mortalitasi are... otherwise occupied, an extra elf rushing about with embalming supplies is hardly enough to catch their attentions. It also got shockingly little attention when one was suddenly found dead! Pretty baubles and good weapons were not difficult to come by." she told Lavellan with a wink, gesturing with ring covered fingers to the regal silverite blade in her hands. 

They sparred for hours, laughing and joking about tomb plundering. Not a conversation Lavellan had ever expected to have, or the type of friend she'd have anticipated making, but she was grateful for it. Some tensed, hyper aware pat of her finally began to relax. Ghilavir was a fine friend, but nearly half Lavellan's own age, and preoccupied with all sorts of new fascinating magics that went beyond Lavellan's basic understanding. She wasn't as close with the others she had traveled with, and had difficulty reaching out to the other people. Despite how often hahren's liked to preach about being united, in reality, elves formed very niche communities. Life beneath the thumb of shem politicians, or roaming the fringes of unclaimed world, left for respectable paranoia. It was easy to forget what openness was. Or what it could be, at least.

As Ethanin wiped sweat away from her brow, tugging curly dark hair back behind her ear, Lavellan's eyes roamed the remains of the space around them. Other elves sparred, laughed, but some seemed a bit frightened. They walked on quick, quiet feet. Eyes darting about and jaws set hard. A worry that set more clearly in their eyes than it did others, although part of her was certain everyone felt it. This was the freest any of them, even the dalish, had been. No humans to lord over them, although snooty ancient elves in ridiculous armour some times made up the difference. And they were afraid it wouldn't last. It set a bitter taste in the back of her mouth, and she ached for a way to reassure her people, but reassure them of what? That this would last, when none of them were even entirely certain of what this was? She sucked in a deep, ragged breath. As Ethanin noticed the change in her mood, she asked for a break with a soft smile, and walked her to a bench on the fringes of the field before waltzing off to find water. 

Light filtered through the broken glass of the ceiling, leafy vines draped through the openings, and crawled the walls in other places. Faded paintings of harts and halla contending in battle against shadowy creatures marked the walls, fractured mosaics of Mythal took up the walls on either side of the entrances. Motes of dust kicked up by elves dancing with blades and staves glistened in the air. It seemed as though a gentle breeze was always passing through, a refreshingly cool brush against the skin, but it didn't seem to have any specific source. Magic, she supposed. As she looked towards the entrance to her right, Solas walked in, arms tight behind his back and head turned regarding the young man beside him. She was surprised by the sad looking boy. He seemed... blurry at the edges, but what was most surprising was his human ears. She thought maybe he could be half-elf, a few such children roamed about the Wycome alienage. But then he walked halfway through one of the warriors they walked past, with no response from any of the people in the surrounding area. Alarmed, she stood, and suddenly the young boys attention snapped to her, and he treated her to a tiny, fragile smile. Solas arched a brow at her before turning back to him, seeming to ask a question to which a nod was supplied as an answer, before his image seemed to freeze for a moment, before he was suddenly beside her. Sunken, bright blue eyes peered at her curiously, a soft, light aura clung to him, and though she was looking right at him, it also felt a bit like she was seeing through him. He reached out gently for her hand as Solas approached, arms no longer tight behind him, a curious light in his eyes. 

"Spiraling trees and mud caked leathers. He shuddered once before falling, blade slick with his blood. He could take the hit and walk away, you couldn't. He couldn't hunt any more but he was happy to see your arrows flying in his place, he didn't mind the quiet life as often as he teased about it, you weren't responsible. He'd do it again if he had to." he said to her quietly, before letting her hand go. 

Confusion and contentment mixed as the pieces of what he'd said clicked together. 

"Should I ask how you know about that?" 

"It clings to you like the spiderwebs on the roots. You're afraid of it happening again, so you take two steps forward when anyone is on your right, but that throws your balance off and then you trip. Blaming yourself is easy, but forgiving yourself gives you back your balance. The shadows pull back and you can see the shapes against the branches again, you don't have to be afraid of them getting hurt." he spoke softly, and the little smile returned to his face before he faded away once more, leaving a fluttering outline of light in his wake.

"So, you have fun friends." she said to Solas, trying to lighten the strange mood that fell over her. 

"Indeed. I've never met a spirit of compassion with quite so many ties to the physical world, Cole has been as surprising as he has been comforting. You have surprised me as well, he is generally not so easy to spot."

"I've heard of spirits of compassion being summoned by shem healers in emergencies, but from the tales it didn't seem like such practices were... friendly. Is that how's here? Was he hurt?" 

"You would worry for him? Another surprise. He was not summoned, but called through by the pain of a child starved to death, and left to be forgotten by the templars. He twisted, but found ways to heal through interactions with... friends of ours." 

"Friends like spirits or friends like real people?" 

"What line is drawn between the two?" 

That question brought her up short. She opened her mouth to respond and tightly clamped it shut again, pursing her lips, and then releasing them again to chew on the inside of her cheek. He seemed content to wait, eyes focused on hers before trailing along the lines of her vallaslin, and then returning to them again as she spoke. 

"You have an interesting way of looking at things, Solas." she said, a light arch to her brow. 

"I try, but that wasn't quite an answer." a slight, cautious curve tugging at his lips

"I suppose it depends on how one defines things. It isn't so difficult to define spirits as a type of people, especially now that I've actually met one." she said, a smile finally finding itself on her features. 

"A fine answer." he replied with an incline of his head, bidding a farewell as Ethanin reappeared with two goblets that looked almost two fancy for water.

Ethanin passed one of the goblets with a near mischievous light dancing in her smokey grey eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing... flirt." she said with a slight wiggle to her brows, snorting into her water as Lavellan smacked her shoulder, "I'm no better, though, really. Absolute beauty near the fountain caught my eyes, looked a bit cross, but I think that might just be their face. Strange that furrowed brows on a nice face can steal my breath, but maybe I've just spent too much time around corpses in my life. Dead shems aren't nearly as attractive as their valuables."

"You do seem very focused on valuable... assets." 

"OH! You're terrible." Ethanin replied, throwing her head back in a hearty laugh.

The conversation veered back towards Ethanin's adventures, then. One particular tale involved her delving into some deep, underground chamber that had been long abandoned after the mage keeping it had died, and with no members of the family remaining, it had been forgotten. It was more heavily guarded, apparently all the really ancient tombs are, with traps and wards that released fire and toxic airs. The spirits that had been bound to the bodies were not as "tamed" as any others she'd contended with before. She nearly lost an arm prying a tiara from one, and waved her left hand to display her fake fingers as she spoke. She didn't care much about the architecture, or the fights. Playing those down as the least interesting parts of the whole experience. She did, however, go into extensive detail about the loot she'd plundered. So far as to list the weights, the cut of the jewels, the care that went into packaging, and at times, restoring assorted goods. The most exciting part, she described in a low voice, was when she discovered that a broken wall led into a cave, which led to another broken wall, which led to the deepest recesses of the Pentaghast crypt. With a proud flourish she pulled an ivory pin dagger from her belt. It boasted intricately carved dragons, remarkable in their detail, and little triangular sapphires ran along the cross guards. She handed it casually to Lavellan, allowing for her to test the weight of it. It was lighter than she'd have expected, but managed to feel remarkably solid in her grip all the same. 

"It's varghast bone. Even after all this time there's a toxin in it that can paralyze a limb if the cut's deep enough. I usually don't keep the weapons I pull, this little dagger and my sword are two of the only three I've ever taken for me. Besides, pulled enough from the other crypt that I didn't think I'd be missin much from not sellin this one." She told her enthusiastically as she returned it to its scabbard. 

"What's the third one?" Lavellan asked, the excitement unsurprisingly contagious. 

"Maybe someday you'll see." she said with a wink before re-assuming her fighting stance. 

Lavellan's smile came easy, and she managed to fight with fewer extra steps than she usually found in her movement.

\--

Cyril's second time flying was no less exhilarating than her first, and the landscape suffered no less vomit. Not-Solas ran soothing cold fingers and healing magic across her back, murmuring more calming nonsense. Her breaths were ragged as she straightened and stretched her back, reaching her arm out in small, circular stretches, and quietly allowing herself to admit that it at least didn't come with the horrible headache this time. The planasene forest was thick and green, there were rocks and big, purple, flowering clusters along the ground. It was a gorgeous place, birds chirping happily in the trees after calming down from the sudden dragon. She felt bad for the vomit. 

After she felt a little better, she patted Not-Solas on the back in thanks, and marched foward, hoping her sense of direction wasn't too skewed from the flight. Maybe she should start carrying around the compass Harding had given her. The day it'd been gifted to her, she'd laughed. Told Harding she wouldn't need it since the world's best scout was always picking paths through the world ahead of her, but she'd kept it. Now it was sitting in a lil trunk of her things in her new underground base, which she was still trying to figure out a name for. Trying to play the name game for an ancient fake god-eating-god and a new top secret base was difficult when the only other player was the fake god-eating-god. Especially when that fake god-eating-god was so fussy about names. 

"Okay, okay, what about The Hive? Gotta nice ring to it, right?" she croaks out after the manage to find a few trail markers.

"For your new home? Fitting I suppose, particularly with our new friends buzzing about on repair and construction."

"Right? I think I'll go with that one unless something better pops up." she answered, leaning down to pick up an orange piece of quartz from the path. 

She held it up to the light, letting herself become familiar with the milky patterns in it before smiling and tucking it into her pocket. The trudged on solidly for about an hour before finding a stone painted in a pattern she only vaguely recognized. Not-Solas seemed to recognize it well enough however, and remarked that it was likely the best path to their destination. When she asked about his knowledge of dalish trail signs, she was treated to a few hours worth of dreamy sighs and tales of Lavellan and how they blew up hightown. Listening to the story of the hightown disaster was interesting, and horrific, mostly she was disappointed in Cullen. She stopped dead in her tracks after a lull in conversation, and waited til his eyes no longer looked so far away before speaking again.

"You had hair?" she asked, feigning shock.

"Solas tended towards extreme styles in youth, most of the others often sough elaborate enough styles as well. If memory does not betray, Solas' was the longest most often."

"Oh nice, ever get locked in a tower? Lavellan swoopin in on a dragon or a horse or some shit... 'love of my life, let down your lustrous locks'! Granted if she had a dragon she probably wouldn't need to climb up using your hair, but still."

He laughed, hard enough for tears to form at the corners of his eyes. His nose scrunched up like it did when he was angry and he shook his head at her. It got him out of his funk, however, so despite the reminder that he wasn't Actually Solas, she counted it as a victory. He was still her friend, after all, and all of her friends were pretty strange. She mentioned some of them, telling him stories of some of the shenanigans she'd gotten into with Dorian and Sera, and the time she and Blackwall got an entire trading outpost into a bar fight. That conversation led into her attempting to explain the difference between bars and taverns, the types of brawls, and when brawling is appropriate. She stopped at one point and grasped his arm tightly, making sure he understood smiting should be used as a last resort, and that at least one strong part of himself fought against such things.

"Yes, I understand such actions will likely cause more problems than they would solve. I won't allow any such compulsions to cloud my better judgement, you have my word." 

She got the feeling he'd probably do some smiting if he found it was necessary, however, and made the mental note to just avoid such situations all together. One mostly clear headed Solas, Flemeth in all her slightly off kilter glory, and one very off kilter Corypheus could manage enough freaky crap on their own, they probably didn't need another fake god adding to that mess. Although she wasn't entirely certain if Flemeth... Mythal... was still... Flemythaling about. Morrigan was busily working away at being possessed by an ancient collection of ghosty type people goop, so there wasn't really anybody she could ask either. For the rest of the trek through the forests, eyes peeled for signs of the settlement she was looking for, they mostly lapsed into silence. The trees entangled around one another and the grass was the spongy sort custom to much of the Free Marches, she took in a deep breath, remembering when she thought that this was the home she was missing. Only to realize, after months of frustration, home is wherever you keep it. 

After climbing to the top of a hill, failing to convince Not-Solas to race her, she found what she was looking for. Elves from a few separated clans, alienages, and all other such walks of life congregating. Exchanging wares and food, she could vaguely hear a lecture going on somewhere and music playing from a little ring formed by aravels. She approached slowly, locating the lookouts hidden between the trees to introduce herself before continuing on.  

"And why have you come here, strangers?" an older man with burn scars on most of his left side asked. 

"I'm Cyril, this is... Zevran... We're friends of Varric's and are lookin for Merrill, I was here a few months ago if anybody can remember a version of me with two arms. I just need her help on a lil magical endeavor." 

"Oh, the inquisitor. Certainly. Gemael and Orala will show you in." The elves he referred to gestured, ahead, one even sparing an infectiously goofy grin, before taking the lead. 

She thanked the man she spoke to before heading on, making small chat about the weather and asking about how things were doing. Apparently Merrill had a pretty effective counsel set up, and there was no food shortage or harassment from troubled humans. Varric's new position as Viscount certainly helped with that, and with the Free Marches experiencing a bit of an economic boom as a whole, trade was pretty fair too, when they set out for it. A few more elves arrive every so often, but they attempt to the little settlement from getting too big. Even with Leliana as Divine, some clerics and other human politicians might raise a fuss knowing that they were out here at all. As they moved through a few people who recognized her from her last visit stopped to say hello, and to inquire about her arm and ask how she was doing. Nobody tried to call her "milady" however, and she was grateful for that. Merrill, it turned out, was busy in a meeting, and so she sat around the fire, Not-Solas leaning against a tree behind her, and listened to a hahren retell the story of the dales. At one point a little girl decided it'd be a good idea to sit on her lap. As the hahren finished his story and asked if she had one, she grinned down at the little face looking up at her in wonderment. 

"Have you ever fought a dragon?"

Little brown curls bounced side to side as her head shook 'no'. Cyril got about half way through a slightly embellished retelling of her fight against Gamordan Stormrider, Merrill joined the little gathering and smiled at her. Cyril focused more of her descriptions of the scales and magic rather than the blood and gore. As the little girls eyes widened at the description of being in the water with electricity surging through it, she went a little more into detail, putting on a dramatic flare and doing her best impression of a dragon. Which maybe was a little ridiculous, but it got all of the kids and most of the adults to laugh, so she didn't mind. She finished the tale at the sound of thunder when the dragon fell, and left of the part about Bull feeling... horny.

She was treated to a small applause and a little voice bubbling from behind a little fist.

"I want to be a dragon."

"I think the Champion of Kirkwall has the same goal, maybe you can help them figure it out." Cyril said with a wink. 

The girl giggled boisterously before bouncing off and running to one of the craftsman to recount the tale herself. A few older people thanked her for the tale, and Merrill slid over to speak with her. 

"That was fun." 

"The fight itself was more frustrating than anything else."

"The way you described it made it sound bigger than any of the dragons I'd fought with Hawke, and they were rather huge. Was it very frightening?" 

"A bit the first time, by the fifth or sixth dragon its basically just Tuesday." 

Merrill laughed and agreed as Not-Solas chuckled. For a time they just discussed dragons. Cyril's favourite was probably Kaltenzahn, and Merrill hadn't fought many non-fire breathers. Not-Solas thankfully refrained from mentioning his own draconic ties. As the conversation continued, though, Cyril noticed the strange almost forlorn expression on his face, and remembered all in a rush that in another world, they had known each other pretty well. She pursed her lips as the conversation died down, wondering how best to approach the favour she needed to ask. 

"So, in Varric's book he mentions you restoring an eluvian... that actually happened?"

"Well, almost. I restored it certainly, but I couldn't actually get it to work before I broke it again." 

"Ah... huh... what d'ya mean?"

"After a lot of consideration, I decided it wasn't safe. Not worth all of the misery it caused... so I shattered it. Hawke helped me get rid of the pieces. There was something wrong with it, I knew that after it took Tamlen and made Mahariel sick... and I... I still tried to restore it." she said, somber and bitter and even a little wistful. 

"Probably for the best, the blight was sitting on it." Not-Solas chimed with a slow nod. 

"Wh... how do you know that?" 

"Oh he's a multi dimensional super being, popped into existence after his girlfriend rejected him. Do you think you could do it again? Not that same eluvian, a different one that isn't all creepy and awful. But it's important, and top secret. I know you've been busy keeping the people here safe, but you wouldn't be too far away, and I kinda need it to save the world." 

"I... well... start over?" Merrill requested, a little exasperated but amused, and, more importantly, interested. 

_Sweet Mother of Partha I hope this works..._

As Cyril explained what she was confident in her plan to Merrill, the first Not-Solas had actually heard of most of it, that sparkle of interest grew. A steely determination set into her face, her fingers tightening where they were folded over her lap. Not-Solas offered no more weird commentary, thankfully. It was silent for the first few moments after Cyril was done, aside from the general ambiance of a forest camp. Merrill closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her brow, lips pursed. After taking several long deep breaths, she spoke.

"I need to think about this. What you're doing is definitely important and I want to help but... I need to think about this." she said quietly, gaze a little apologetic.

"I completely understand, take the time you need."

"It seems we don't have much of that to spare, though..." she said quietly, standing to leave and stare at the stars for a time. 

Not-Solas went to speak to her, and with Cyril mentally crossing her fingers that that wouldn't be a complete disaster, she approached one of the people who had escorted her in.

"Do you have a courier?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally sat my ass down for this  
> hey listen to this  
> http://totalspiffage.tumblr.com/post/116763247524/enchanter-dragon-age-cover-download-link-ive


	9. Letter She Wrote

_Dear Sera,_

_Okay yeah I'm in over my head. I got myself to wound up without really thinking it through_  
again  
and didnt really do nearly as much planning into this as i should have?   
The bare essence of this little plan I've got formed is barely strung together and I was too dependent on the idea that people would just... help me... without really realizing that maybe they wouldnt or couldnt? 

_I had no guarantees for anything and I went charging in because for some reason I thought it would be easy or I could make it okay but thats not generally how this shit works?_

_Sera I am so scared. Ive been afraid for such a long time and I thought it would get better but every time something seems like it's going to improve shit just gets weird and then it gets worse. I didnt_

_I dont_

_Theres too much and everybody is all over the place and that weird friend I made is the same but hes miles different and Im in too far without my eyes open._

_I just dont know what to do._

_I know the jennies in orlais need a lotta wrangling and direction but_

 

_Sera._

_if you can come_

_please do_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is super late and super small im so so so so sorry! i got really sick at the end of april and was really out of it for like a week and lost my outline for the story and couldnt remember where i was originally taking the story but i think i have smth figured out now sorry again


	10. Green lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey yall quick warning to those who are emetophobic!

_**It was burning. The world was burning, ash and ruin and death parading across the landscape in searing green light. Claws raking against skin and splitting veins as lives snuff out against the light like candles in the wind, a hand reaches forward attempting to pull it back lessen the blow but its too late. It will always have been too little too late and the world is shaking, shaking and falling apart against its axis. Angry, bitter, broken minds seeking their power seeking the way out opening the way and laying to ruin the seeds of a new world and all that remained of one before it. And the woman stands there, fading against it crying out and cursing the world but the light is too much. It streaks and sputters and cracks inside of her pulling from her missing limb, consuming everything and its painful - painful in its fury and anguish. The hand reaches out again but the light crushes it too, and once bright eyes goes blind against the green, burning burning and the way out is broken and busted and there's no stopping the flood of agony that breathes from their mouths and the death that they rend. The woman crumples and the light - the wind - or something more - howls with agony before it all again goes dark.** _

\--

Cyril jolts from her cot with a start, slamming to the ground and cursing at the pain as the stump of her arm fails to catch her. She is still blinking back green light and clutching at her side, breathing raggedly, as Solas walks in. 

 _No, not Solas._ She reminds herself, pressing the heel of her hand against her mouth and curling in a little more tightly against herself. He sits with her, panicking slightly as he rubs her back and presses light healing spells against the scrapes on her arm. A few other elves from the camp press their heads in through the opening of her tent, inquiring as to what happened. Not-Solas shakes his head at them, and after several moments they leave again. Light filters lazily through the slit in the tent flap, and Cyril looks to the orange streak across the ground for reassurance. Her hand is shaking as she lowers it to her lap, straightening her back and taking a several more steadying breaths before she realizes Not-Solas is waiting for her to say something.

"Muh." she states elegantly before rushing to the trees outside to vomit. 

The inside of her mouth tastes like salt and iron as Not-Solas rubs at her back a bit more. She stalks away a few paces to lean against a tree not covered in vomit, wiping sweat away from her forhead with the back of her hand. Momentarily the world feels as if it has flipped on its side, her vision is still swimming, lines of green crossing across her eyes as she blinks. As a perfectly reasonable response, she keeps her eyes open to the point of them watering, thick tears rolling down her face. Cyril wipes them away in frustration, nearly attempting to use her left hand to do so. Brightly coloured birds flit between the trees, plumage of green and purple and splotted with white, chirping to each other frequently. The are other sounds coming from the forest, mostly birds, but she can hear crickets and toads too. For a moment she finds herself yearning for life before the conclave, for simple business and simple messes, but she remembers redcliffe well enough to know that trying to go back in time wouldn't work or at all be helpful. Her nose is running, shockingly with blood, her hand shakes a bit as she wipes at it with the front of her night shirt. Which was already gross, so Not-Solas really shouldn't look at her like that. Unless he's surprised at the blood, in which case his incredulous expression is forgiven. He speaks to her again, worry painting his features, but it all just kind of sounds like he's talking to her through water. After a while longer, as he continues to try and speak to her in increasing panic and once her vision stops fading in and out, she sucks in a long breath, letting it all out in a gust.

"What?" she says, practically croaks if shes being completely honest here. 

"Did something happen? Were you attacked? When you awoke you were covered in magic!" he seemed nearly breathless as he spoke, gesturing frantically and deploying a myriad of healing spells once more. 

"No, no I wasn't attacked... well maybe? I dunno it was... weird. There was... shit... and..."

"And?" 

"I think... I had a dream?"

"That -" Not-Solas said, aghast and straightening his back tightly, looking away for a moment before turning back to her with a shake of his head, "That should not be possible." he replied, sounding a touch afraid.

"Well its happened before... I had a few dreams when the anchor was around. But it's been awhile, and usually they made more sense than that mess."

"Tell me everything, I am here for you."

Cyril felt her heart heave a little at that statement, a small, frightened voice in the back of her head whimpering, _But you left before...  
_

_\--_

A few hours later, after helping to prepare, serve, and eat breakfast, Not-Solas was still brooding over the contents of her nightmare and Merrill was still pointedly staring at them without actually speaking to them. Nearly a week had gone by since they'd arrived, and Merrill's expression was a constant flux between excitement, confoundment, and dread. The excitement was starting to be on her face more often than not though, so Cyril held out hope she'd agree to join soon. Cyril had no idea how long it would take Solas-Solas to put his plans for the world into full motion, he'd already been gone for two years before revealing the nature of his identity, and who knows what all he had managed to accomplish in that time alone. Thinking on all the work that needed to be done and how long it could take knotted Cyril's stomach, the mutton she'd eaten for breakfast turning to lead in her stomach. And on top of that her headache was back, she was beginning to run low on lyrium, having forgotten to repack her personal supply before setting out to find Merrill. She grit her teeth, and wondered if Not-Solas wouldn't mind a short stop in Kirkwall before they returned to the hive so that she could barter with some carta or peddlers bound to be in the city. 

She was sitting under the sun reading through a few letters from Josephine, smiling fondly at the woman's excitement to be back in Antiva, when a blonde elf with big, pale green eyes approached Not-Solas. 

"Bel'Vhenen would you like to accompany us on the hunt again today?" he asked with a faint smile and blush, their lilting accent bouncing with their words as he tucked a curly strand of hair behind his ear.

"Ah, not today, thank you. I do wish you luck, however." the young elf tried not to look too disappointed, but there was the slightest pout to his lips as he nodded. He smiled at Cyril, saying he was glad she seemed to be feeling better, before striding away, each step smooth across the uneven roots of the trees he disappeared into.

"So... 'Bel'Vhenen'?" 

"They kept calling me Zevran on the hunt, it began to annoy. I snapped out the name two days ago just to get them to stop but forgot to inform you upon my return."

"Well it's got a nice ring to it, does it have a specific meaning?" she asked, tucking the letter away and trying not to think too hard on if a certain letter reached a different blonde elf. 

They spent a few hours in the sun, Sol - Bel'Vhenen going over the rhythm and definitions of the elvhen language. His eyes looked far into the distance, his fingers seeming to draw out notes against the surface of the table as he went over the ebb and flow. Cyril began to feel very sleepy and warm, as Bel'Vhenen got into more poetic terms, reciting stories in elvish before translating them to her in common. Some words seem to make him sad, as there were no easy translations for them in the common tongue. At other moments he was frustrated that he couldn't devise any way to translate them into common. As his brow furrowed and his fingers clenched and unclenched against the table, she began to tell him what she knew of ancient dwarven language, and what she had learned in the deep roads with Shaper Valta. She got a little wistful herself talking about the titans. The disconnection from them and the idea of slumbering Stone. 

"While we were down there, Solas said that my people were the fallen arm of a warrior, lying in a puddle of blood. Varric told him that he shouldn't say that around the carta and I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or scream. I ended up just glaring at them really hard. Solas for being kind of a prick about it and Varric... well I wasn't sure if he was saying 'carta' cause he forgot I was a member of it or if he was trying to subtly get Solas to be a bit more polite about it... but sometimes its just fun to glare at Varric, see which one of us cracks first and starts making stupid faces. Usually it's me." Cyril said while looking upon the lines and callouses of her palm, wishing she could trace along them with her other hand like she used to.

"I... can see how he would come to that assessment. I am sorry for the pain it caused you, he hasn't spent too little time in the world." 

"Pffft, cause you've spent so much more of it?"

"Technically... yes. I lived in Kirkwall for a little over a year, I watched how the people lived in the world I created... or recreated, for centuries. I did not interact with the people often, perhaps one of my greater mistakes, but I observed." he admitted with a frown, Cyril's next statement seeming to settle into his thoughts before she even said it.

"One can only learn so much from sitting around and staring. If you want to know a people you have to learn with them, live with them, see with eyes completely unclouded. But you have to be respectful about it too, nobody likes a cocky asshole showing up and deciding he knows everything." she winked at him on the last, pulling a small easy laugh from him as his eyes settled again on her face. 

"You are right, of course." he said quietly, looking away sadly once more. 

After a few moments of silence, she resumed quietly telling him the tale of her journey into the deep roads, and her suspicions about the Evanuris hunting the titans for some power or other. He couldn't confirm or deny her theories much, some of the elves like him did hunt titans, but none of the Evanuris had absorbed or stolen any power from them in his own world. They were power unto themselves, and had no need to. At that statement Cyril remembered that the man in front of her was capable of destroying and recreating worlds at large, that he was born of a version of her friend that had devoured the souls of other beings of incredible power. But, despite the fact that he could probably crush the world with a sweep of his hands, she'd never really felt afraid of him. She began tuning him out a bit as she wondered on if it was because he looked so much like Solas, or if it was something about him personally. That he didn't seem motivated to bloody his hands that way ever again probably helped his case out. As did watching him slip and fall on his ass in some mud a few days prior. Which was hilarious, honestly, and it took a great deal of work and lip chewing to not start laughing at him again as she remembered the moment. He'd said something apparently very vulgar in elvish based on the way the scouting group they were wandering with had reacted, Rowen teasing the youngest, Ellana, by covering her ears in mock offense at "swearing near a child". She'd punched him hard enough in the gut to send him sprawling into the mud too. Then everybody was being shoved into the mud one way or another, until they'd returned to camp with everybody but Cyril absolutely covered in the stuff. The hahrens clicked their tongues and chided the scouts, going on about responsibility and setting an example for the young ones, but they smiled the whole through. Laughing as they wrinkled their noses and demanded the scouts head the springs to bathe before dinner. 

She did manage to break face and snort at that moment, and Bel'Vhenen looked at her quizically. 

"Sorry just... people, y'know?"

"Indeed." he said, sagely nodding his head and continuing on with whatever story she had been accidentally annoying.

Something about a gala and a... horse? She wasn't completely certain about the animal he was talking about, and didn't full understand the social taboo that caused Andruil to declare him and his "atrocious pet" the focus of her next hunt. He skimped across some of the more disturbing details of the tale, of leggings with nails forced into them, and a hunt that lasted two weeks before Andruil became bored with her quarry and simply destroyed the forest he had been bound to. 

"That sounds... awful, wow. Absolutely terrible. How could people think that was okay? Please tell me you don't have the urge to do shit like that." 

 "No, no of course not. I admit I seemed to have... inherited the more ruthless aspects of Andruil and Falon'Din, but I also inherited much from Solas, and Dirthamen, each found such displays unpleasant and cruel." he spoke in a rush, fearful at Cyril's response. 

 _Maybe_ , Cyril realized slowly,  _he's just afraid of losing a friend as I was. Am._

She patted him on the arm with a sideways grin and assured him she trusted him to not take after his grosser parents. Dubbing them his "parents" seemed to both upset him and intrigue him, he hadn't really thought too deeply into his "birth", and what his relations to such people, past and present, would be defined as. As the hunters returned with fresh meat and set to skinning and preparing the midday meal, with kids and teens buzzing about to learn and help with assorted tasks, she realized that the Dalish and the Carta really didn't function that differently, and she wondered why she ever thought that they did. 

As meats were cooking or being cured, and hides were given to craftsmen, and tired hunters propped their feet against stones or benches, Merrill quietly approached them. She was drying her hands on a blood stained cloth, not quite meeting Cyril's eyes before taking her seat. She folded the cloth delicately, setting it to the side and spreading her palms flat against the table. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a few seconds before opening them again. She met Cyril's own gaze head on, her eyes steely, lit internally by her devotion to what she yearned to protect, to restore.

"Alright, I'll help." 

"I appreciate -"

"There will need to be a few things established here first though, the hahrens and other clan and alienage leaders are more then capable of meeting any threat or running the camp, but I do need to finish a bit of work here. And then... then we are going to Kirkwall, and we're checking on the alienage there, and we're speaking to Varric and Hawke. I don't want anything foul happening to any of my people or friends, and with elves disappearing in large numbers for whatever purpose... well Varric will have been keeping on eye on that. And I have other friends there who I'll need to make sure are alright, and they could help too. This... all of this is too big for one person, everybody needs help now and then, there's no shame found in asking for it or accepting it when its offered. I know you don't want this to get too large... too noticeable. But you can't handle this with only a handful of people. And you won't be charging into any fights on your own." there was only the slightest quiver to her voice as she spoke, but she was firm in her assessment, despite having picked up the cloth again halfway through to begin fidgeting with it. 

After a small pause that had Merrill lifting her chin, Cyril put all her training in court etiquette and negotiations into use as she said, 

"Yeah, okay. Sounds good." 

Merrill loosed a heavy breath that she didn't seem to realize she'd been holding. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of me wants to make this be more bouncy and silly and fun and the other part is all set on bein serious hrrrbrrhrr but w/e its gonna be whatever its gonna be  
> hope i can focus better on writing the next chapter! appreciate all of those whove been reading so far~


	11. ~filler art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its filler art im so sorry

I promise I havent abandoned this story Im just suffering from some very annoying writers block  
please enjoy this image of Cyril as an acrobat in the meantime Im hopin to have a new chapter soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the gist of what i need for the next chapter im just having trouble getting there satisfactorily

**Author's Note:**

> i originally submitted this to fey via tumblr and now im pushin it over here like i did with the dickherald au !!


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